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The Wattersons 


A 

NOVEL OF AMERICAN LIFE 


BY 

WILLIAM MARABELL 





if^JZ 


AUTHOR OF 

“THE RISE OF MAN/’ “THE HEART OF A ROSE” 
and “SHERMAN WATTERSON” 


Published by the Author 





LIBRARY Of CONGRESS 
Two CoDles Received 

MAY 20 190? 

Copyn»ht Ei<»ry 

CLASS CX. XXe., No. 

/ 

COPY B. 


Copyright 1907 

BY 

WILLIAM MARA BELL 


Printed by ®^f)C ^tanlep-Caplor Companp, San Francisco 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. PAGE 

I. — Mr. Marblemore at Work 9 

II. — In Which Mr. Marblemore Beards the 

Lion in His Den 20 

III. — In Which the General Becomes Remi- 

niscent 38 

IV. — In Which Rev. Mortimer Ringrose 

Makes Hii^ A ppearance 52 

V. — In Which Aunt Sadie Gives a Dinner. 61 

VI. — In the Evening 73 

VII. — In Which Myrtle Calls a Meeting. . . 88 

VIII. — In Which Rev. Mr. Ringrose Makes a 

Call 107 

IX. — In Which His Reverence Gains a Con- 
fident AND A Friend 118 

X. — In Which Little Rosie Attends a Play 129 
XL — In Which Rosie Is Again Made Happy. 147 
XH. — The Organization “ 162 

XIII. — Scattering Threads 175 

XIV. — In Wpiich a Shepherd Turns Wolf. . . 193 

XV. — In Which Aunt Sadie Goes on Her 

Rounds 200 

XVI. — Shows the Woman's Progressive 

Union in Solemn Conclave 213 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. PAGE 

XVII. — Of a Woman That Finds Herself. . . . 224 
XVIII. — In Which the General Entertains. . . 238 
XIX. — In Which a Very Old Story Is Retold. 250 
XX. — In Which Mr. Watterson Is Appealed 

TO ON Sentimental Grounds 260 

XXL — In Which Boss Watterson Takes a 

Hand 274 

XXH. — In Which Mr. Sagamore Forms a Reso- 
lution 290 

XXHI. — Containing Various Matters 309 

XXIV. — In Which the Rev. Mortimer Ringrose 

Does His Duty 323 

XXV. — In Which One Woman Declares and 

Another Confesses 335 

XXVI. — In Which Our Hero Takes His Flight 352 
XXVH. — Concerns Itself Chiefly With Myrtle 367 
XXVHI. — In Which Rosie Pleads and Elmer 

Promises 380 

XXIX. — In Which Rosie Waits in Vain 388 

XXX. — A Glimpse of Dillingham, the Poli- 
tician and the Family Man 398 

XXXI. — In Which Mrs. Rosewood Becomes 

Jealous 411 

XXXH. — In Which Mr. Ringrose Meets With 

A Surprise 418 

XXXHI. — In Which Rosie Is Driven Forth 426 

XXXIV. — In Which General Hamilton Meets 

Mr. Marblemore 436 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. PAGE 

XXXV. — Of Little Rosie 448 

XXXVI. — In Which the Woman's Progressive 

Union Passes a Resolution 454 

XXXVII. — The Convention 468 

XXXVIII. — In Which Mr. John Sagamore Is Nomi- 
nated 488 

XXXIX. — Is Largely Devoted to Mr. Sagamore. . 505 

XL. — In Which Elmer Returns 518 

XLL — A Mortal Blow 533 

XLII. — An End and a Beginning. 540 

XLIII. — In Which the General Abdicates 552 

XLIV. — The Beginning of the End 563 

XLV. — In Which the Great Marblemore 

Glories in His Greatness 570 

XLVI. — An Explosion 581 

XLVII. — Retribution 591 

XLVIII. — In Which Mr. Sagamore Scores a Vic- 
tory AND Experiences a Defeat 599 

XLIX. — Reconciliation 614 

L. — After Two Years 626 



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PREFACE. 


In human life there are always undercurrents, tend- 
encies, making slowly but surely for the progress of man- 
kind. These undercurrents manifest themselves now in one 
direction, now in another, and may not be overlooked by 
him who, in the guise of fiction, would write the history of 
his time and country. The tendencies which in this par- 
ticular era are agitating Society, no observer can doubt, lie 
in the direction of the complete equality of the sexes, politi- 
cally and morally. 

The widespread discontent among women today with 
conditions governing Society, which on the one hand de- 
prives them of that political equality which common sense 
and reason assures them is their right, and on the other 
exacts of them a higher standard of morals than that which 
governs their brothers, is bound in time to work its revolu- 
tion — a revolution more far-reaching than any that has gone 
before. Morally, it means the rise of Man to Woman's 
purer plane; mentally, the rise of Woman to Man's high 
intellectual level. 

I l|ave sought in this book to depict these conditions ; 
to show in fictional form these tendencies at work. Not 
as one constituting himself champion of any reform or 
movement; but purely from the standpoint of an impartial 
historian. 

It is hardly necessary to say that, while the scenes of 
the story are laid in Illinois, the political conditions as 
depicted are in no sense a study of those existing in that 
State. The characters, of course, are one and all fictitious. 
I have sought merely to represent conditions as they might 
be, and in Mr. Watterson have tried to portray a political 
boss who would be considered rather a blessing than a curse 
to a given community. He is not at all an impossible 
figure in our life, though he may be a decade or two ahead 
of his time. 

In Myrtle Watterson I wished to portray a type of 
young woman tremendously on the increase in this country 


PREFACE. 


— the intellectually aspiring woman, who is not only willing 
but eager to take an active part in the world’s work. Clara 
Marblemore is merely a perversion of the type and is, I 
venture to say, representative of a large class of women 
who, with much that is admirable in the way of athletic 
culture, lack that mental poise and balance which gives to 
all things their just and necessary proportion. The mind, 
long subjected and restrained, has not kept pace with the 
body in growth and development during the brief generation 
or two in which women have been permitted to enjoy that 
large freedom which today is theirs. The story of little 
Rosie will speak for itself. 

The Rev. Mortimer Ringrose is a fair representative of 
an order of clergymen of whom unfortunately there are 
too many abroad — ministers who, in seeking a passing per- 
sonal popularity, prostitute not only their sacred office, but 
all that manhood holds of principle, honor and decency; 
flattering, cringing slaves to popular favor, they regard as 
secondary their obligations to God, and in all things model 
themselves and their teachings with an eye singly to please, 
to conciliate and to flatter those upon whose continued favor 
their lucrative posts depend. The type, I fear, was rather 
lost sight of in the man; and in this connection it should 
be remembered that all that is gross in him belongs to the 
character, and not the type portrayed. 

Of the book as a whole as a picture of human life and 
human nature, I would state, by way of meeting certain 
inevitable reflections upon my choice of fictional characters, 
that I have purposely seized upon what is exceptional 
rather than what is commonplace. Given a thousand poli- 
ticians, all corrupt to the core, and one who, in the midst of 
corruption, maintains honor, manhood, character, I prefer 
the one who differs from his kind. Similarly, the scoundrel 
in the pulpit, where scoundrelism is rare yet not entirely un- 
known, offers opportunities which the good and pious, and 
therefore commonplace, clergyman would never yield. 
And between the two, politics and religion, the one contain- 
ing so much that is bad and the other so much that is good, 
I dwell preferably upon what is or may be good in the first 
and what undoubtedly is bad in the last. Doubtless the 


PREFACE. 


primary function of the Novel is to entertain ; failing in this, 
it fails in all; but entertainment and instruction may well 
go hand in hand if the underlying lesson be unobtrusively 
conveyed. Picturing the good in the bad or the bad in 
the good may convey a lesson; painting black in black 
serves but to emphasize its gloom. 

In conclusion, let me express the hope that this book 
will not be denied the serious consideration of the critics 
because I have seen fit myself to publish it. This is the 
fourth book that I have published. The three that have gone 
before met with little consideration at the hands of 
the reviewers, being ignored for the most part. The pre- 
sumption always is that a novel which bears upon its title- 
page the inscription ^Tublished by the Author’’ is not 
worth a moment’s notice ; for has it not upon the face of it 
failed of the publisher’s endorsement? To be sure! But 
of just what value upon the side of literature is the pub- 
lisher’s endorsement? The measure of its value is best 
attested by the record of the past half dozen years. Of ten 
thousand novels published in that period mth such endorse- 
ment, how many have been accepted by these same critics 
as worth more than merely passing interest ? Three ? 
Two? One even? Surely one would think a judgment so 
irresponsible, so far from lending weight to a work of un- 
known quantity, would positively brand a production, what- 
ever its pretensions, as mediocre to the last degree. 

The publisher’s endorsement at best is purely commer- 
cial, and for that very reason is barren of all value in a 
literary way. His standard of judgment is the yardstick; 
he looks only for negative virtues among which in a world 
where books, like outcast dogs, exist on sufferance, brevity, 
no doubt, is the greatest. Quality does not count. Work- 
manship does not matter. If Thackeray, unknown, entered 
a modern publishing establishment with ^Tendennis” under 
his arm, he would be laughed to scorn. ''Cut it down,” he 
would be told. And unless the author complied with this 
request he would go unpublished until the end of time. 
Now, the length of a book has nothing whatever to do with 
its merit. It adds neither to, nor does it in the least degree, 
detract. It is entirely incidental, immaterial, unimportant. 


PREFACE. 


It lies no more within the province of the literary critic to 
criticize the length of a book than it lies within the province 
of the art critic to criticize the size of a canvas, and only a 
fool among critics, or a critic among fools, would think of 
such a thing. Yet things have come to such a pass today 
that no manuscript, no matter what its merits may be, will 
meet with a moment’s consideration at the hands of the 
publishers unless it be arbitrarily cut to meet the bounds 
prescribed by the commercial hogs who today rule all in 
the field of letters. 

Hence an author imbued with one atom of self-respect 
is obliged to ignore as non-existant that tribe of greedy 
parasites who, with brazen effrontery masquerade as the 
conservators of all that is best and purest in literature when 
they are but the bumptious propagators of dull mediocrity 
to whose sordid plane they singly seek to level all down. 

W. M. 

San Francisco, Cal., March, 1907. 


CHAPTER I. 


V 


MR. MARBLEMORE AT WORK. 

The Great Marblemore, banker, financier, and man of 
afifairs, issuing from the splendid portals of his home, 
paused for one moment upon the wide veranda to gaze 
arrogantly out upon the world ; then slowly descended 
the marble steps, and slowly proceeded up the broad, white 
walk, which divided the lawn running to the street. He 
cast a final glance behind him, ere turning townward, a 
triumphant, gloating glance, puffing out his mighty chest 
portentously. A magnificent mansion truly, this gorgeous 
home of his, the costliest, he flattered himself, in all 
Clarenceburg. Never could he resist the impulse to pause 
and gloat at sight of this huge pile. The wide, stretching 
verandas curling around the wings ; the marble columns, sup- 
porting the balconies above ; the towering dome to the right ; 
the turrets projecting here and there, the porticos, galleries, 
cornices, carvings rioting everywhere — all filled his breast 
with unalloyed delight. To him this colossal structure 
appeared sublimely beautiful, a very masterpiece of artistic 
achievement. There it stood, a monument to his millions, 
and there, too, stood John and James in livery, and in the 
background George arid Henry lurked, ready at a nod from 
the master to spring to do his bidding. The banker paused 
for a moment to bathe his soul in the joy of it, then briskly 
turned away. 

It was a beautiful day in early spring. The trees which 
lined the street were beginning to put forth tender green 
leaves; the lawns, newly green, glistened in the sun like 
velvety satin. A gentle breeze came sweeping across the 
City, laden with the fragrance of the surrounding prairies. 
The banker squared his mighty shoulders and blew forth 
his breath explosively. Overhead the birds were chattering 
cheerfully and darting in and out among the trees in mad 
abandon. 


10 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘‘A beautiful day/’ murmured the banker, softly smil- 
ing ; and promptly stiffened to answer with becoming dignity 
the respectful greeting of a passing citizen. The Great 
Marblemore, banker, financier and man of affairs, never 
relaxed his dignity in public. 

A man somewhat past fifty, of burly build, stout with- 
out being fat or flabby, the banker looked the picture of 
rugged health and strength. The great, red face was smooth 
shaven, save for a bristling mustache of reddish hue, 
clipped sharply on a line with his upper lip. There was 
something bovine in the straightforward gaze of his eyes; 
the massive chin bespoke an iron will as the forehead, broad 
and high, affirmed a strong mentality. The careless negli- 
gence of his attire contrasted oddly with his haughty 
demeanor. The banker cared nothing for dress ; he was 
sufficient unto himself. A self-made man, a man of millions, 
supremely satisfied with his millions and his maker. 

He met many people as he strode briskly along — his 
fellow-townsmen, and visiting farmers from the surround- 
ing country, with all of whom he exchanged curt greetings, 
for he knew them all and was known to all, and hugely 
admired as a man of enormous wealth and power. Some 
few showed a disposition to pause and enter into conversa- 
tion, but the banker pushed on brusquely, bestowing a nod 
here, a word there ; or it may be, a freezing glance in reply 
to some irrelevant youth, whose hilarious greeting bordered 
too closely upon familiarity. A close observer following 
the great man’s actions during that brief walk, might then 
and there have told to a fraction the financial standing of 
each individual crossing his path. 

Like most Western towns of its size, Clarenceburg had 
its center of being in a public square, in the middle of which 
stood the Court House, a stately structure whose towering 
dome loomed large in the distance. The banker glanced 
with puckered brow at the gilded clock, whose hands pointed 
warningly at two, and he struck into a brisker stride. The 
residential district began presently to give way to the busi- 
ness section. Stores and shops, whose glittering glass fronts 
verged upon the street, followed one another so closely that 
soon they presented a solid, unbroken wall of glass, all 


MR. MARBLEMORE AT WORK. 


II 


ablaze with signs and names and trade-marks. Before one 
of these, within hailing distance of the square, the banker 
half paused, casting a venomous glance at the inscription 
upon the ground glass door. 

''The Clarenceburg Chronicle,’’ the inscription read, at 
sight of which the banker scowled until all you could see 
of his eyes was a double glint, indescribably vindictive. But 
he went on with head bowed in thought. 

He reached the end of the street, and was just turning 
into the square when a man, a minister from his dress, com- 
ing briskly around the corner, almost ran him down. 

"Pardon me ! Ah, Brother Marblemore, I’m delighted 
to see you,” exclaimed the minister, a little breathless from 
the unexpected encounter. "I am making the rounds, you 
see, getting acquainted. A beautiful little city truly. 
Brother.” 

The banker frowned, but permitted the other to grasp 
his big paw, and shake it fervently. 

"I’m glad you like it,” he responded dryly, and was about 
to make ofif when the minister detained him. 

"One moment. Brother Marblemore,” he said, hastily; 
"I understand that you are expecting your son home from 
college shortly.” 

"My step-son, sir; my step-son merely,” the banker 
replied stiffly. 

"Indeed! Your beautiful and accomplished daughter, 
in speaking of him this morning, mentioned him by name, 
and I understood — ” 

"He has taken my name because I desired it, but — ” the 
great man concluded with a wave of his hand. 

"I see, I see. And Miss Watterson, too, is returning 
on Saturday, I hear. Well, well ! I shall have a number 
of young people to work with. I hope. Brother, that the 
young man — your step-son — will become an active member 
of the church — as valuable to us, if that were possible, as 
the man whose name he has the honor to bear.” 

"I hope so,” replied Mr. Marblemore, composedly; "but 
he is rather wild from all I hear.” 

"Ah, youth, youth/’ murmured the minister, smiling 


12 


THE WATTERSONS. 


indulgently. ''Human nature is weak, Brother, and young 
men will be young men.’’ 

"Just so. And now if you will excuse me, Mr. Ring- 
rose, I have an important meeting to attend.” 

"To be sure. Brother,” replied Mr. Ringrose, depreca- 
tingly. "The time of so important a man is too precious, of 
course — ” 

With a wave of his hand the banker passed on, and 
crossing the street, he gained the Court House lawn, a beau- 
tiful expanse of greensward traversed by gleaming walks, 
around which he made his way to the opposite side of the 
square, and so to the Clarenceburg National Bank, which 
stood in the exact center of a block of business buildings 
facing the Court House. 

"Anybody been here, Johnson?” asked the great banker, 
passing into his private office. 

"No, sir,” very humble that Johnson. "No one of 
importance, sir. Ferguson, the grocer — ” 

"What of him?” queries the banker haughtily, as 
Johnson comes to an untimely pause, coughing depreca- 
tingly. 

"He insists upon seeing you personally, sir. Can’t meet 
certain notes,” he says. 

"There’s Ainsworth, Davidson, Jameson.” 

"So I told him, sir,” replied Johnson, again coughing 
deprecatingly, "but he demands a personal interview with 
you, sir.” 

"Where is hq,?” 

"He went away, sir, saying that he would return imme- 
diately. Ah, there he is now !” 

"Show him in.” 

Johnson, the confidential man and secretary, hands the 
banker several letters, then ushers in the persistent Fergu- 
son — a little round ball of a man, resembling an apple dump- 
ling both in form and feature, having a round head, a round 
belly and round cheeks to match them. He is past middle 
age and quite grey, both as to hair and beard, which last 
is short and curly, like the wool of a very young lamb. An 
innocent, peevish little man, whose perpetual expression of 
ill-usage was oddly out of place on his rubicund counte- 


MR. MARBLEMORE AT WORK. 


13 


nance. He waited patiently enough, standing beside the 
great man’s desk, and gazing in a kind of astonishment down 
at the banker, who sat there so cool, so calm and mighty. 

The banker’s private sanctum was a small box of a 
room placed in a corner with a screened and curtained win- 
dow looking out upon the square. It was enclosed by a 
thick grating, handsomely gilded, through which, by glanc- 
ing across Johnson’s little box, the banker commanded a 
view of the outer floor in front of the teller’s window as 
well as of the interior, where a dozen young and old men 
were engaged in posting large ledgers. How low they 
bend with the great man by ! Hardly daring to breathe it 
seemed. One comprehensive glance he cast around before 
taking up his letters. Not a sound save the busy scratching 
of pens, figuring up the accruing wealth of the great Marble- 
more, banker, financier and man of affairs. The letters 
finished, the great man turned to Ferguson. 

''Well, sir,” he said with dignity. 

"I — I — that is, you have some notes of mine, Mr. 
Marblemore,” stammered Ferguson, turning almost purple 
beneath the banker’s cold glance, and shifting nervously 
from one foot to the other. "They fall due tomorrow, and 
I cannot meet them, sir. Not right away, anyhow.” 

"Well, sir,” again said the banker, without abating a 
jot in his dignified bearing. 

"I want to ask you to give me more time.” 

"You have seen Ainsworth?” 

"Yes,” said Ferguson, with sudden irritation, "I saw 
the whole damn clique of them — Ainsworth, Johnson, 
Zindle, Davidson, Jameson, but all they can talk about is 
the rules of the bank, strict orders and the like. I never 
seen such a set of cringing puppies. They seem to be afraid 
to call their souls their own.” 

"You understand, Mr. Ferguson,” said the banker, 
drumming upon the desk with his thick red fingers, "that 
there is no use in having rules unless you live up to them.” 

"Oh, yes, in the main,” said Ferguson, querulously, 
"but I don’t believe in rules at all.” 

"And you are, in consequence, in difficulties,” said the 
banker coldly. 




14 THE WATTERSONS. 

“Not on account of not having no rules/' said Fergu- 
son, angrily. “It’s all luck. I’ve got the most infernal luck 
of anyone I know of. I am always in hot water. Always !” 

“Luck does not count in business, sir! Poor manage- 
ment, Mr. Ferguson, poor management.” 

“Poor hell, sir!” roared the excited little man. “Do 
you call working from four in the morning till ten at night 
poor management?” 

“You keep no books, sir ; you have no system.” 

“But I work.” 

“Work,” said Mr. Marblemore, disdainfully, “an ass 
works, but he remains an ass until the end of time. You 
must work with method and intelligence to succeed at any- 
thing.” 

He cast a glance over his own successful institution, 
and threw out his mighty chest, waving his hand toward the 
dozen young and old men at work in the interior. 

“Oh, yes,” grumbled Ferguson, “but I didn’t come here 
to take lessons from you, but to ask you for time in which 
to fix up them notes. I’m good for the money.” 

Very likely if the man had been properly humble and 
supplicating, he would have attained his desires, for Mr. 
Marblemore was by no means a hard man, but his inde- 
pendent attitude not unnaturally irritated the great man. 

“The notes are due tomorrow,” said the banker, “and 
tomorrow they must be paid — ” 

He finished the sentence by turning to his letters again. 
Mr. Ferguson glanced at him half ruefully, half angrily. 
He opened his mouth to speak more humbly, then closed 
his lips firmly, and with an angry shake of the head, strutted 
out. 

Mr. Marblemore glanced at his costly gold watch. 
Two-thirty ! 

“Mr. Dayton,” announced Johnson at this moment, and 
a slender little man came bounding in. 

“Hot as hell, ain’t it, Marblemore?” he gasped, shaking 
hands cordially. 

“Pretty warm,” replied the banker, as cold as ice, as 
he motioned the other to a chair. 

“Mr. Everhard,” announced Johnson. 


MR. MARBLEMORE AT WORK. 


15 


A middle-aged man, contrasting sharply with the 
excited Mr. Dayton, came strolling leisurely in, looking 
pleasantly cool and imperturbable. He shook hands with 
Mr. Marblemore with a quiet ''How do?'' 

The banker waved him to a seat. Dayton plunged for- 
ward excitedly. 

"Hot as hell, ain't it, Everhard?" he gasped. 

"Mr. Bennett," announced Mr. Johnson. 

"How do you do, Marblemore ? Ha, Dayton, Everhard, 
good-day," said Mr. Bennett, in a loud and pompous voice. 

The banker nodded, Mr. Everhard waved a graceful 
hand. Mr. Dayton plunged at Bennett's first, which he 
grasped and shook with warmth and cordiality. 

"Hot as hell, ain't it, Bennett?" 

"Mr. Langhorn," announced Johnson. 

Big, florid man Langhorn, with a sly but jovial look, 
bows all around, and reluctantly relinquishes his hand to 
Mr. Dayton's passionate greeting. 

"Mr. Watterson," announced Johnson. 

Then Mr. Marblemore rose up for the first time, and 
with a smile of warmest friendship went to meet the big, 
handsome politician as he came in, in his grave, majestic 
way, surrendering his hand to Dayton with a droll look of 
helplessness. 

"Hot as hell, ain't it, Watterson?" gasped the excited 
little man. 

A man of gigantic stature he seemed to fill the room, 
so tall he loomed, so broad of shoulder and vastly propor- 
tioned. His cheeks had the ruddy glow of health ; the face 
enframed in a short, rippling brown beard was very hand- 
some. His eyes were brown in color, and as gentle in their 
expression as any woman's. Altogether, a man of distin- 
guished presence, quiet, grave, unassuming, he bodied forth 
the typical Westerner, both in the wide freedom of movement 
with which he advanced into the little room, and in the 
negligent ease of his attire, which consisted of a black frock 
coat thrown carelessly open, revealing a white waistcoat 
above which a snowy expanse of linen terminated in a nar- 
row collar of the turn-down variety, with the merest string 
of black ribbon arranged in a bow at the throat. A black 




1 6 THE WATTERSONS. 

slouch hat, high of crown and broad of brim was loosely 
set upon the back of his head, exposing to the full a brow 
both high and broad, with masses of silvering locks curling 
thickly out beneath the drooping brim. 

''Another chair, Johnson,’’ cries Mr. Marblemore. "A 
chair for Mr. Watterson!” 

With his own hands the banker takes the chair from 
Johnson and places it directly opposite his own. 

"Quite pleasant out, Winfield?” 

"Yes, Andrew, spring is here, depend upon it,” replied 
Mr. Watterson, smiling. 

Some social talk ensued among them all, Mr. Marble- 
more addressing all his discourse to Mr. Watterson. Mr. 
Langhorn was fervid but sly, Mr. Dayton hot and excited, 
Mr. Everhard cunningly composed, Mr. Bennett loud and 
pompous, and Mr. Watterson quiet and dignified, but rather 
bored than otherwise. 

"The papers, Johnson,” said the banker, glancing 
through the window at the Court House clock. "Mr. Ben- 
nett, if you please.” 

Mr. Bennett takes some papers from Johnson, adds a 
few of his own, and after some arranging begins to read. 
This evidently is a meeting of the Board of Directors of 
the Watterson Broom Works, of which Mr. Watterson is 
President and Mr. Marblemore, Vice-President. They listen 
to Mr. Bennett in smiling complacency, suggestive of large 
dividends. So much business for the month past; so much 
on hand; such and such expense; reports of agents; state- 
ments of accounts; outlying debts; crop reports, conditions, 
prices, etc., etc. Report of superintendent necessary repairs, 
hoped for improvements, needed enlargements, suggestions, 
remarks, etc., etc. General satisfaction, smiles of approval 
at Mr. Watterson, congratulations to Mr. Bennett; cigars 
passed around; five minutes social conversation, in which 
all join genially; then departure of Bennett, Dayton and 
Everhard. Mr. Watterson and Mr. Langhorn remain. 
Mr. Marblemore looks at his watch; Mr. Langhorn looks 
at his watch. Mr. Watterson, lazily twisting his slender 
watch chain, glances up at the Court House clock; three 


MR. MARBLEMORE AT WORK. I7 

o’clock all round. Impatience manifested on the part of 
Mr. Marblemore. 

''Mr. Davidson/’ announces Johnson, and in rapid suc- 
cession Mr. Davenport, Mr. Joseph, Mr. Cutting and Mr. 
Goldberg, all important men of affairs, residents of this and 
neighboring cities, and directors of the Clarenceburg Bank, 
of which Mr. Marblemore is President and Mr. Watterson, 
Vice-President. 

"Johnson, call Ainsworth.” 

Ainsworth, a priestly-looking man, comes in. Reads 
papers, statement of accounts, deposits so and so, outstand- 
ing loans so much, notes, mortgages, etc., etc. More discus- 
sion, more satisfaction, cigars are lighted, and again the 
dozen young and old men in the interior are regaled with 
the prosperous laughter and gay, bantering tones of their 
sleek employers. How pleasant it sounds ! What satisfac- 
tion it yields them ! Lord ! Lord ! Glowing and perspiring 
with rapture, they bend over their fat ledgers, and scratch 
away for dear life, and the pittance that makes that dear 
life possible. Meeting lasts half an hour. Mr. Marble- 
more shakes hands in a dignified, unbending manner, with 
all at parting, but accompanies Mr. Watterson to the outer 
door, where they part with mutual friendliness and a warm 
pressure of the hand. 

"By the way, Andrew,” said Mr. Watterson, "Fergu- 
son has been to me about those notes.” 

"Yes,” said the banker, raising his eyebrows. 

"Yes. Turn them over to my private account.” 

"He does not deserve k, Winfield.” 

"If we received no more than our deserts, Andrew,” 
said Mr. Watterson mildly, "we would have rather a hard 
life of it; Ferguson is a worthy and hard-working man, but 
unfortunate.” 

"His misfortune is his own fault. No system, no 
method in his business. However, you need not trouble, 
Winfield, Ferguson’s paper is good. I wished merely to 
teach him a lesson in his manner of bearing himself when 
suing for favors.” 

"Pie is an independent sort of man,” replied Mr. Wat- 


i8 


THE WATTERSONS. 


terson, smiling. ''But that, Andrew, is, in my opinion, a 
trait of character to be cultivated and encouraged.'’ 

The banker shook his head, frowning. 

"I am going to call on General Hamilton this evening,” 
he said in a casual way. "About the street railway, you 
know.” 

"A bad move, Andrew.” 

"But a necessary one.” 

Mr. Watterson shook his head disapprovingly. 

"Better stay away,” he said. "You are sure to clash.” 

"Very well,” responded the banker coldly. "Then 
clash it is. I think better of him, however. He can be 
made to see the folly of antagonizing Me, I think; at any 
rate, I shall endeavor to make it clear to him.” 

"You do not know the General, Andrew,” said Mr. 
Watterson, with a chuckle of intense enjoyment. "Let him 
alone. He loves a fight as other men love peace.” 

"I shall call.” 

"Then, for Heaven's sake, speak him gently,” said the 
big man, still laughing. 

They shook hands once more and parted. 

"Anything of Demorest yet, Johnson?” asked the 
banker, returning briskly to his private office. 

"Nothing.” But with the word, Mr. Demorest puts in 
an appearance, and is promptly ushered into the banker's 
private office. Tall, thin, reddish man, Demorest, coun- 
sellor for the P. D. & Q. Railroad. Very quiet and impo- 
sing in manner. Is given ten minutes, and is succeeded by 
Mr. Markham, who is followed by Mr. Dougherty, who 
gives way to Mr. Everett, whoTs, in rapid succession, fol- 
lowed by Mr. Babman, Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Mansfield and 
Mr. Densmore — all cogs in the vast money-making machine 
operated by the Great Marblemore, banker, financier and 
man of affairs — heads of the various branches of the bank, 
agents in various important enterprises, middlemen between 
Mr. Marblemore and various other institutions, and repre- 
sentatives of various Eastern corporations with which Mr. 
Marblemore is connected. Eor, from this little country 
town the Great Marblemore wields a tremendous power that 
stretches over many states, and is lodged in many cities — a 


MR. MARBLEMORE AT WORK. 


19 


power given by money, and used to make more and ever 
more money. For money is the life, the breath, the very 
soul of the Great Marblemore, banker, financier and man 
of afifairs. 

''Now for General Hamilton,’’ muttered the banker 
grimly, as he went into the street. But his step became 
slower as he neared the editorial sanctum. Few men there 
were in the city of Clarenceburg who would not have hesi- 
tated at the thought of bearding that journalistic lion in his 
den. But Mr. Marblemore went on, albeit slowly, and 
bringing up at the General’s door, resolutely mounted the 
steps and entered the outer office of the Clarenceburg 
Chronicle. 


CHAPTER II. 


IN WHICH MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 

The Clarenceburg Chronicle was a four-page weekly, 
old-fashioned in every department, and strikingly resembling 
an ordinary blanket in shape and dimensions. It was 
strictly Democratic in politics, not of immediate local appli- 
cation. The principal feature of the Chronicle and the one 
most popular with its readers was its bristling editorial 
page, which in a manner peculiarly its own, treated of 
every subject of passing interest, assailed men and measures 
with fearlessness and power, and in all things pertaining to 
the world at large, assumed those airs of superiority and 
dictatorial proprietorship which properly belonged to it as 
the guide, philosopher and friend of all mankind. 

There was an individuality about the Chronicle which 
no other paper in the city possessed. It was an unamiable, 
narrow, bigoted, intensely egotistic individuality to be sure ; 
but unique and attractive for all that. It was always a 
matter of conjecture, of interesting speculation, among 
Chronicle readers as to what their organ would have to say 
on a given subject of current interest. That it would have 
something to say was certain, and that 'something invariably 
became the opinion of those who read the paper. 

The editor of the Chronicle was decidedly a man of 
opinions, and one who believed in expressing those opinions 
as forcefully as possible. He was master of a certain force- 
ful English, a clear, nervous virile style, and was never at a 
loss for a homely illustration to clearly convey his meaning. 
The General believed that the function of a newspaper was 
primarily to expose and attack all manner of fraud and 
rascality. The spreading of news was to him of secondary 
importance. He believed in striking straight from the 
shoulder, the straighter and harder the better. He was of 
the old school of journalism, a past master in the art of 
vilification. He could hold a hapless victim up to ridicule 


MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 21 


or savagely nail him to the cross with equal ease. He took 
a grim pleasure in the task. He cared nothing for feelings 
trampled upon ; he never considered consequences. He was 
headstrong, obstinate, violent, dictatorial and cock-sure. 

The General could not argue. He knew nothing of 
logical reasoning. Beginning an editorial designed to dem- 
onstrate the fallacy of a given theory, he would invariably 
end by hurling things at the head of him with whom the 
theory had orginated. He often started out gravely to 
show how a certain legislative enactment would benefit or 
harm — say the farmers at large — but before he had clearly 
explained the nature of the particular act alluded to he 
would have worked himself into a fury and entirely forget- 
ful of his fundamental purpose he would pitch into the law- 
makers as a body and fiercely denounce them as villains, 
hyenas, highway robbers and murderers at large. He would 
descend to the most scurrilous language, he would stop at 
nothing; he was merciless. 

In the early days of the Chronicle’s career the General 
had been frequently called to account by furious victims of 
his biting rancor, but he had shown himself absolutely 
devoid of fear. Men had entered his editorial sanctum 
horsewhip in hand, but the whip had never been laid across 
the old warrior’s square shoulders. He had been shot at, 
and far from offering the other cheek he had, on several 
occasions, returned the fire with results rather discourag- 
ing to those contemplating similar attacks. Several men 
had been carried feet foremost out of the Chronicle build- 
ing, and the editorial page of that ferocious organ was 
rather blank for several weeks after one such encounter; 
but those days were past now, much to the General’s regret. 

He had indeed, once upon a time, defied the entire 
population of Clarenceburg. That was in the third or fourth 
week of the General’s incumbency. There was little known 
of the General at that time, nor indeed was there much 
known now. That he was of Southern birth and breeding 
was a matter of common knowledge; that he had been a 
Confederate officer, and had fought against the North, he 
never lost an opportunity of proclaiming. He had come to 
Clarenceburg as the guest of Mr. Watterson, and after a 


22 


THE WATTERSONS. 


stay of two or three months he had bought the then almost 
defunct Chronicle, and had set out to build up its waning 
circulation. The very first issue of the paper, after coming 
into his hands, contained a long editorial on the then popular 
theme — the Civil War, and the discussions rising out of it, 
in which he defended the cause of the South and fiercely 
arraigned the North for its course before, during and after 
those four terrible years. That is he started out to do this, 
but falling afoul of General Grant early in the argument, he 
paused long enough to administer a kick or two to the pros- 
trate form of that hero; and remembering, as he proceeded, 
that there were others equally guilty, he continued through 
a long catalogue of revered heroes of the North, covering 
them all with a mass of blazing scorn and vituperation. 
This, coming from a Northern town and paper at a time 
when the feeling against the South still ran very high, 
aroused widespread comment and anger. In a single week 
the Chronicle leaped from obscurity into the widest kind of 
prominence. The article was copied everywhere, and the 
General was denounced from one end of the State to the 
other as a rebel and a blackguard. The General read the 
exchanges and chuckled, then wrote a second screed even 
fiercer than the first, in which he breathed defiance to the 
entire North, and of all things attacked the personality and 
record of Lincoln, calling him a clod, an awkward boor, a 
vulgar, shambling, ungainly creature, a cunning politician 
and trickster. This article, like the first, was received with 
widespread rage and threats and vilification. 

In the course of the week the General was waited upon 
by a committee of gentlemen who, declaring themselves the 
representatives of the citizens of Clarenceburg, informed 
him that he must cease his senseless tirades, which brought 
disgrace upon the city, or leave the town. The General, in 
the wildest rage, drove them from his doors, and sitting 
down in a white heat of anger composed a tirade upon the 
forbidden subject, savage and virulent enough to raise the 
hair on the heads of those who read it. On the evening of 
its publication, he was beseiged in his office by a mob of 
excited and exceedingly angry citizens whose avowed pur- 
pose it was to run the General out of town, after first tar- 


MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 23 


ring and feathering him as a warning and example to all 
beholders. 

As the story ran, the General, foaming with rage and 
scorn, faced the mob, pistol in hand, and held them at bay, 
defying them one and all to come on and get him; but 
swearing to shoot the first man that dared to advance upon 
him. It would, no doubt, have gone hard with the hot- 
headed old fellow, for his furious assailants were closing 
in upon him, had it not been for the opportune arrival of 
Mr. Watterson, the General’s friend, then a grave, young 
lawyer and rising politician. In a few, calm words he suc- 
ceeded in quelling the anger and staying the determination 
of the ringleaders of the mob, and taking possession of his 
choleric friend, he talked to him long and earnestly, with 
the result that in the ensuing issue of the Chronicle, the 
General contented himself with attacking various contem- 
porary organs, which had been particularly bitter and vig- 
orous in assaults upon him. In place of the usual tirade 
dealing with past events of bitter memory, there were four 
brilliant little essays, one of which neatly laid out a certain 
state senator who at the moment was making himself par- 
ticularly obnoxious to the good folk around about; the 
second fired a broadside into the Governor for vetoing a 
certain measure, the benefits of which the General did not 
trouble himself to explain; the third prettily discussed the 
advantages to be derived to the city by the possession of a 
park, and the fourth gave an exceedingly witty account of 
the doings of the City Council. These little editorials 
struck a note wholly new and charming. The citizens and 
farmers of Clarence County were not used to having mat- 
ters of current interest discussed in their local papers, and 
as the Chronicle continued with growing brilliance in the 
path which it had struck at, subscriptions began to pour into 
the Chronicle office; and the General in high good humor 
with himself and his readers, exerted himself to the utmost 
to make his paper a bright and readable one, and before long 
the Chronicle was firmly established as the popular organ of 
the county. 

The General carried on unceasing warfare with a dozen 
surrounding contemporaries. His paper was known far and 




24 THE WATTERSONS. 

wide as ^^The Rebel.” Whatever differences engendered 
by local discussions these papers had among themselves, 
they all united in attacking the Chronicle and humorously 
abusing the General. They misquoted his apt quotations, 
pretended to find evidences of filching in his columns, ridi- 
culed his forceful English, poked fun at his style and, in 
short, did everything they could to arouse the choleric old 
warrior and provoke an angry retort, and they succeeded 
admirably. In a column headed “With Our Contemj>o- 
raries,” the General dealt with them from week to week, to 
the uproarious amusement of all men engaged in country 
newspaper work. But though they thus abused and mocked 
and ridiculed his methods and mannerisms, they all loved 
the old man and admired his undoubted journalistic genius. 

The General asked no favors and accepted none. His 
paper was in no sense a competitor with the two city dailies, 
but was read alike by Democrats and Republicans in addi- 
tion to their regular party organs. The General solicited 
no advertisements and accepted such as came to him only 
from week to week. He sought no subscribers, asked for 
nothing, demanded nothing but independence. He was 
away behind the age in business methods, and this would, 
no doubt, in time tell upon his paper. He had many bitter 
enemies among the more substantial citizens of Clarence- 
burg, for the more important the man the greater was the 
General’s delight in assailing him. He took the keenest 
pleasure in airing their little foibles, and in satirizing their 
more eccentric traits of character; and some few, lacking 
that sense of humor by the grace of which some of us can 
enjoy a little fun at our own expense, chose to resent the 
General’s play of humor, and thus incurred the vigorous 
enmity of that gentleman. Among these was Mr. Marble- 
more the great banker. The General despised the man, and 
never lost an opportunity of rapping him. He was an expert 
paragraphist. In a column headed “Chronicle and Com- 
ment,” he revelled riotously in humorous little digs and hits 
directed at the more prominent citizens of the state and city. 
Mr. Marblemore’s name figured there every week. His 
ostentation, his pride of purse, his arrogance of bearing, 
his insatiable craving for wealth and ever more wealth, 


MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 25 

afforded the General endless opportunities for satirical com- 
ment and scornful allusion, beneath which the stiff banker 
writhed and fumed. 

Not only in this did he anger Mr. Marblemore; he 
antagonized the banker at every turn. Mr. Marblemore’s 
business connections were very wide ; how far they 
extended beyond the narrow confines of the city was not 
generally known, but in the city his was the most potent of 
all names in matters of industrial concern. Whenever there 
was a city franchise wanted for any purpose, or a city grant, 
or favor, the name of Marblemore was sure to be at the head 
of the company soliciting it. It was so in building the 
costly water works and reservoir, in purchasing ground for 
the park, in lighting the city ; and now in the matter of the 
contemplated street railway it was Marblemore again who 
was knocking at the door of the City Council. All this 
angered the General not a little. He gave the banker no 
credit for civic pride, nor chose to acknowledge the man’s 
marvelous business ability; but hating the grasping greed 
which, in his opinion, prompted the banker’s unceasing busi- 
ness activity, he heaped him with abuse and scorn and 
vituperation. 

This was particularly unfortunate for Mr. Marblemore 
in the matter of the street railway. The Chronicle was still 
a power in the city, though a slowly waning one, and its 
vigorous opposition to the proposed innovation threatened 
to set at naught all of the banker’s well-laid schemes. The 
consent of two-thirds of the property owners along the line 
of the proposed route must necessarily be obtained before 
the matter could even be presented for consideration to the 
City Council, and these property owners, for the most part 
old fogies with old fogy notions, incited by the General’s 
furious denunciations, absolutely refused to concede the 
matter at all. And so matters rested. Nothing could be 
done until the General was won over or silenced, and so the 
banker, smothering his anger and swallowing his pride, had 
determined to call upon the General. He had sent various 
emissaries^ but to no avail. The General turned a deaf ear 
to their arguments. He would not explain the grounds of 
his opposition save through the columns of the Chronicle. 


26 


THE WATTERSONS. 


He chose to oppose the thing and that was all. Mr. Marble- 
more should have taken warning by the fate of his emissaries 
but he did not. From remarks let fall by the General dur- 
ing his talk with Mr. Bennett, the last-named gentleman 
rather believed that he would treat with Mr. Marblemore, 
and Mr. Marblemore only, and so the great man who never 
permitted private feelings to stand in the way of business, 
chose to ignore the long-existing coldness and enmity 
between them. 

The General was slitting in the editorial sanctum with 
feet cocked high, conversing amiably with young Watterson, 
his youthful assistant, when Daniel, from the outer office, 
thrust his woolly head into the room. 

''Misto Ma'blemo’, Marse Dave,’’ he announced, show- 
ing all his glistening ivories in a grin of breadth and 
pleasure. 

And the next moment the banker walked into the room 
in his stiff, unbending manner, and pausing at a short dis- 
tance, sought to make out the General’s face and form in the 
smoke that eddied like clouds in the corner where his desk 
was placed. The General rose, took one quick step forward, 
then paused and looked sharply at his visitor. The look 
boded the banker no good. The General’s tongue was as 
sharp as his pen, and his manner to those towards whom he 
felt hostile was as ferocious as his method of wielding the 
little instrument of his fortunes. 

'‘Good morning, General Hamilton,” said the banker, 
stiffly. 

The General bowed slightly, but did not otherwise 
answer. 

Sherman came forward quickly and placed a chair for 
the banker, which courtesy he acknowledged by a slight nod, 
but declined. 

"To what do I owe the distinguished honah of a visit 
from Mr. Ma’blemo’?” said the General in a tone of savage 
irony, which, however, escaped the banker. He was a 
straightforward man and unused to distiuguishing be- 
tween differing shades of tones. He, moreover, held him- 
self in such high estimation that he felt a visit from him to 


MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 27 

be a distinguished honor to any one, as, no doubt, it would 
have been considered by any of his business associates. 

wished to see you, sir, upon the subject of our pro- 
posed street railway,’’ said Mr. Marblemore, drawing him- 
self up slightly. 

'‘Ah!” said the General, bringing the ends of his thick 
grey mustache together beneath his chin and tugging at 
them, while glaring at the banker. 

“Mr. Bennett was here — ” • 

“Yes, and Mr. Langhorn,” interrupted the General, 
“and Mr. Dayton and Mr. Remington, and now Mr. 
Ma’blemo’ does me the distinguished honah to call upon 
me !” 

This time Mr. Marblemore glanced at him sharply, but 
the General’s face was impassive as a mask. 

“Yes, Mr. Bennett thought that while you were still 
opposed to us, you would, if I called — ” 

“If Mr. Ma’blemo’ called,” prompted the General, as 
the banker paused. 

“You would not perhaps be adverse to listening to 
reason.” 

“Oh Lord 1” thought Sherman, who sat looking on and 
listening. 

“Ah !” said the General slowly, “I would not pe’haps 
be adve’se to listening to reason.” 

“Upon what grounds do you oppose us, sir?” 

“If Mr. Ma’blemo’ would read the Chronicle he would 
find the ansa’h to that question tha’h.” 

“But I do not read the Chronicle,” said Mr. Marble- 
more, impatiently. 

“That is Mr. Ma’blemo’s loss.” 

“And you know very well why I do not read the 
Chronicle.” 

“Yes,” said the General, carefully dusting the lapel of 
his coat, “tha’h are animals so thin-skinned that they cannot 
bear a little necessary application.” 

“What do you mean by that, sir?” 

“Mr. MaTlemo’ may put any construction he pleases 
upon my words,” said the General with a scowl. 

The banker swallowed hard, and with extreme difficulty 


28 


THE WATTERSONS. 


controlled his resentment. Sherman felt sorry for him, and 
wished he had not come. The General’s manner was one of 
studied insolence, which invariably preceded a violent out- 
break. 

‘‘Come, General,’’ said Mr. Marblemore, coughing 
slightly behind a large red hand, and showing a smiling 
face. “We need not quarrel about it. I came to ask you 
frankly to look more deeply into the matter. Our city is 
large and constantly growing ; a railway such as we propose 
will be of great benefit to our citizens, and no citizen should 
oppose it out of pure obstinacy. In time we shall connect 
Waterville, Clarence, Downing’s Grove and all outlying 
points with the county seat, and eventually run to Charles- 
ton, Newton and all neighboring towns of size. But all this 
will take time, and we must begin in a small way. We ask^ 
you to look more closely into the matter, and if you cannot 
bring yourself to support us perhaps you will remain 
neutral and not oppose us. I will tell you candidly that we 
have met with much hostility among the property owners 
along the line of our proposed route, and their opposition is 
founded solely upon the grounds first presented by the 
Chronicle.” 

“Which Mr. Ma’blemo’ not being a readah of the 
Chronicle, is unfamila’ with,” said the General. 

“On the contrary, sir, I know them well,” retorted the 
banker contemptuously, “and it is because I could hardly 
accredit such childish and absurd reasoning to a sensible 
man that I have come to see you, to inquire into your real 
reasons for opposing us. The beauty of our streets is all 
very well. General, but that beauty is, or should be, of sec- 
ondary consideration. Business comes first nowadays, and 
it is decidedly to the advantage of our city from a business 
standpoint to have a means of rapid communication between 
our city and the outlying farms and villages. This is a pro- 
gressive age. General, and we should move forward with 
the age we live in, and not lag behind with the past.” 

“Mr. Ma’blemo’ pleads his cause well,” sneered tlie 
General. 

Mr. Marblemore’s face assumed a purple hue, and again 


I 


f 

t 

1 

I 


MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 29 

he swallowed hard. He did not like the word ‘^plead/’ and 
he decidedly disliked the Generahs tone. 

''I am speaking for our city, sir,’' he said, 'hny cause, 
as you call it, is secondary, and in that sense it is also the 
the cause of several of the more prominent of our citizens, 
Mr. Watterson among them.” He laid particular emphasis 
upon the name, having in mind the close friendship existing 
between the General and its distinguished owner. '‘Our out- 
lay will be large, and the prospect of immediate gain very 
slim, and can but come when we have completed the system 
of which I gave you an outline in the beginning. Much 
money will be expended and many men will be employed, 
and he would be a mean-spirited citizen who, seeing all this, 
should still oppose us.” 

"I am sorry that Mr. Ma’blemo’ should considah me 
a mean-spirited citizen,” said the General; "I really do not 
see how I shall bear up under the blow !” 

"You cannot deny, sir,” said the banker, unable longer 
to quell his rising anger, "that a citizen who from ignorance, 
or obstinacy, or from whatever motive, chooses deliberately 
to oppose that which is clearly for the benefit of the city, is a 
mean-spirited citizen.” 

"How can I deny anything that Mr. Ma’blemo’ is 
pleased to state as a fact?” 

The banker straightened his burly shoulders, facing the 
General, hot with anger. 

"Do you mean to fight me, sir?” he asked in a low voice. 

"Fight the Great Ma’blemo’ ! What folly ! What 
inconceivable madness !” 

"General Hamilton, I ask you again, do you mean to 
fight me?” 

"I shall fight any scheme, or plan, or thing with which 
you are connected, suh,” roared the General, suddenly brist- 
ling with fury. Sherman breathed a sigh of relief. This 
i humor was more natural to the choleric old warrior, and the 
1, very protraction of his mocking spirit made him less violent 
i than he would have been. "I shall at all times and under all 
I su’cumstances oppose anything in which the name of 
Ma’blemo’ figures, suh !” 

"Why?” demanded the banker, glaring. 


30 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘^Because the name stinks of money, suh, because it is 
foul with money, because you could not be connected with 
any scheme, or plan, or thing unless tha’h was money — 
much money — to be gotten out of it by you, because you are 
always planning, scheming and dreaming of ways of making 
money. You anxious for the welfa’h of the city? Faugh! 
Fo’ every dollah you spend you expect a hundred in return.’’ 

The ruddy color all forsook Mr. Marblemore’s face 
beneath this savage arraignment. He stood for some min- 
utes glaring in speechless rage and astonishment at his 
implacable enemy. The General stood glaring in return. 
They contrasted oddly these two, — the banker big, burly, un- 
gainly, a man of commonest clay, whose clothes hung about 
him in baggy wrinkles, whose hands were huge and red, 
whose face had never lost a certain stolidness born of gen- 
erations of slaving forbears; the General tall, thin, austere, 
the very pink of elegance and grace, the personification of 
haughty arrogance in face and bearing — a handsome old 
man, proud, stifif, domineering with a leonine head and eyes 
of flashing black; his hair, worn rather long, was silvery 
grey; a thick mustache of darker hue, and a neat imperial 
completed a countenance of rare strength and beauty. 

They contrasted oddly indeed, as they stood glaring in 
mutual hatred, yet they were alike in this, that each bore him- 
self with unbending stiffness and dignity in the face of the 
world. There was, however, a subtle difference even in this 
their one point of similarity. The General’s hauteur was 
natural, a part of him. It was engrained in his very nature, 
the result of breeding, of youthful training, thought and 
environment. With Mr. Marblemore, it was a thing assumed, 
like an ill-fitting cloak of whose ungainly cut and fashion he 
was forever uneasily conscious. Sherman thought that 
oddly enough the banker in assuming the bearing and de- 
meanor which he thought befitted a man of his wealth and 
greatness had consciously or unconsciously modeled himself 
upon the General, his bitterest enemy, whose courtly ease 
and calm dignity of deportment he secretly admired and 
envied. 

‘'General Hamilton,” said Mr. Marblemore as the color 


MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 3 1 

returned in volume to his cheeks. ‘'Upom my soul, Til make 
you rue those words.” 

''Faugh !” replied the General, turning his back upon 

him. 

"Upon my soul, I will,” repeated'the banker. 

He stood eyeing the General in a kind of daze. 

"Good evening, suh,” said the General, turning sharply 
upon him. "Tha’h’s the do’. Get out !” 

Mr. Marblemore turned away, passing his hand over 
his ample forehead, and without another word went out. 
The General strode up and down the room for a time seeth- 
ing with anger, casting many furtive glances at his stalwart 
companion, who sat frowning prodigiously. 

"Well, boy!” he said, presently. "What have you to 
say ?” 

'Oh, it was a shame !” cried Sherman, starting up indig- 
nantly. "A shame to speak to him that way ! You had no 
right, no reason, no provocation to attack Mr. Marblemore 
at all, General, and you know it.” 

"Right — reason — provocation! You know nothing 
about it, suh. The man is abho’rent to me personally — 
pe’sonally, suh! Is not that right — reason — provocation 
enough ?” 

"No, it isn’t.” 

"He called me obstinate. Isn’t that provocation 
enough?” 

"No, General,” replied Sherman calmly. "You are 
obstinate you know.” 

"Well, boy,” said the General in high good humor once 
more. "I choose to assume the right without reason or prov- 
ocation. I despise the man ; he is too proud by half, and 
his pride is the wo’st kind of pride — the pride of pu’se of 
money, of arrogant, overbea’ing wealth.” 

"We’ve made a powerful enemy,” said Sherman 
gravely. 

"Bah ! You irritate me, suh ! I’ve been making 
enemies all my life ! I thrive on it, suh !” 

And the grim old warrior, lighting a fresh cigar, sat 
down and wrote a thundering tirade against the street rail- 
way and its promoters, in the course of which he took occas- 


32 


THE WATTERSONS. 


ion to direct the disinterested attention of his readers to 
Marblemore’s career, which he reviewed at length, calling 
special attention to the number of favors he had asked and 
received of the city; questioning his methods of procuring 
the various franchises which he controlled, and charging 
him in the plainest terms with corruption and bribery. 

“Will you come out to headquarters tonight, boy?’’ 
asked the General along towards evening. 

“With pleasure. General, only I’ll have to ask Aunt 
Sadie.rr 

“I know that, boy; I know that. You are tied to her 
apron strings fo’ all time I suppose — a-good-fo’-nothing 
young puppy.rr 

Sherman laughingly denied the imputation, protesting 
in the same breath that he desired no better fate than to be 
forever bound to good Aunt Sadie. The General pooh- 
poohed the notion and in great good humor prepared for 
home. 

“Daniel, you black rascal, my hat, my cane,’’ he cried 
to his black attendant. “Now run on ahead and tell Benjy 
to meet us with the ca’iage. Take the exchanges. Be quick 
or I’ll cane you within an inch of yo’ life. Now, he’ll run 
until he’s out of sight,” growled the old warrior as Daniel 
made off with every evidence of desperate haste ; “and then 
he’ll drop into a snail’s pace. W o’thless scoundrel ! I 
couldn’t get ten dollars fo’ that boy if I tried.” 

Sherman broke into a shout of laughter. Though well 
used to the General’s way of referring to Daniel as a chattel 
or personal possession to be disposed off at will, he never 
could resist the humor of it all. 

“What are you laughing at, suh?” demanded the Gen- 
eral fiercely. 

“Nothing, General; nothing at all,” replied the boy, 
still laughing uproariously. 

“Then you are easily amused, suh !” said the old warrior 
shouldering his cane and marching out. 

They were in the outer office on the way to the street 
when the door opened amid a chorus of feminine shrieks to 
admit an exceedingly pretty girl who came forward mod- 


MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 33 

estly and in the most engaging manner ofYered her cheek to 
the General. 

“Why, little Dimples !” cried the old man, regarding 
her fondly. “Did you wish to speak to me, my dear?'' 

“I only stopped in in passing. General," replied the 
pretty visitor dimpling rosily. 

“Don't forget me, Rosie," cried Sherman, bending 
down as if in emulation of the General’s gallant example, he 
would impress a kiss upon the pretty cheek. 

Rosie drew back blushing and ofifered her hand instead. 
Sherman looked deeply disappointed. 

“What, you rogue !" cried the General, tugging de- 
lightedly at his imperial. “Not content with golden youth 
you would usurp the prerogative of the grandsire. Fo' 
shame, suh !" 

Sherman, however, did not look in the least ashamed. 

“Myrtle is coming home on Saturday, Rosie," he said, 
smiling; “and Elmer, too, I understand." 

“I’m glad," Rosie, replied with shining eyes. “Good- 
by, General. Give my love to Mam Sue and Carlo." 

Sherman escorted her in state to the door, where half 
a dozen girl companions were awaiting their little friend, 
with whom they presently resumed their interrupted journey 
homeward. Sherman and the General followed more slowly. 

“A glorious evening. General," said Sherman. 

It was past the hour of six, and the street was alive 
with people hurrying homeward from the day's work. One 
and all made way for the General, who marched with mili- 
tary erectness, his cane carried across his shoulder, pointing 
to the sky. Sherman's name was shouted aloud in jovial 
greeting on every hand, and he replied with equal hearti- 
ness, somewhat to the annoyance of General Hamilton. 

“You should bear yo'self with propa' dignity in public, 
suh," he said, severely. “A bow is sufficient to acknowledge 
the greeting of these good people. No gentleman, suh, 
should pu'mit himself to exchange badinage with his 
infu'iohs as you are constantly doing." 

“Nonsense, General," replied Sherman, vigorously. 
“These people are my friends, and in every way my peers." 




34 THE WATTERSONS. 

“Faugh ! Fm ashamed of you, suh, upon the honah of 
a gentleman/' 

Sherman laughed good-naturedly. He knew his old 
friend's foibles too well to seek to contend with him upon 
this subject. An aristocrat of aristocrats, the General con- 
sidered all these good folk immeasurably beneath him, and 
he never let slip an opportunity to impress the fact upon 
such as crossed his path. 

“What a monstrosity !" he exclaimed, passing the 
Marblemore mansion. “It is like the man, vulgah, crass, — a 
very monument of stupidity. Truly, Mistress Marblemore 
is to be pitied. To live in such a house with such a man ! 
I can imagine no wo’se fate fo' a cha'ming woman !" 

“I think it rather handsome," observed Sherman. 
“What I hate is that kind of thing," he continued, with a 
nod as John and James at this moment crossed the broad 
veranda; “those liveried flunkies with their ridiculous kow- 
towing. The banker doesn't seem to realize that he has 
become the laughing stock of the town." 

“How should he, suh? He dwells in a wo'ld of his 
own, and sees nothing that goes on beyond it." 

“The worst of it is, he is being imitated on all sides. 
I wish you'd let me open up on them. General. This thing 
has been going on for years. What do you say, old boy, 
give me a free hand, will you ?" 

“It is useless, suh," replied the General. “Have not I 
turned my batteries full upon them? It availed nothing." 

“I know, I know. General; but I'd go about it in a 
dififerent way. A fellow can do more these days, as I'm 
constantly telling you, by poking fun at what is false than 
by thundering maledictions. It's a different generation, old 
friend, and, moreover, I'll have to do with women in this. 
Supposing I adopted the heroic strain in describing Mrs. 
Hammersmith's next 'soiree' — " 

“You would earn the lady's etu'nal gratitude, suh." 

“Very likely; but her husband, the Judge, would see 
it in the right light. He'd know he was being held up to 
ridicule, because of his wife's foolishness, don't you see, 
and he'd promptly put a stop to it. Come, General, what do 


MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 35 

you say? I’m sure we could work a change in short order, 
and we’d certainly get a bushel of fun out of it.’' 

“The fact is, boy,” replied the General, smiling, “I can 
see no real ha’m in it all. If it pleases these good dames to 
ape in a small way the manners of the fashionable rich, 
why should you inte’fere?” 

‘Tn moderation. General, it is no harm, I grant ; but 
they needn’t make themselves ridiculous,” urged Sherman. 

“Yo’ ideas and mine of what constitutes the propa’ 
social obsu’vances, suh, diflfer widely. Why shouldn’t these 
good people, being prosperous, erect go’geous mansions and 
fill them with su’vants? Why shouldn’t they keep ca’iages, 
hold receptions, give pa’ties, balls and what not? True, it 
is all rather grotesque at present, because of the all pu’vad- 
ing crudeness, but the practice of these affairs is bound in 
rtme to wo’k great good. In the beginning I was opposed 
to it, I own, but I’ve come to take a philosophical view of 
it, and, in fact, have come to enjoy the spectacle. Let them 
alone, boy; let them alone. Has not Aunt Sadie a butler?” 

“Oh, Franklin!” cried Sherman, laughing. “He’s a 
perpetual joy to Aunt Sadie. I’m not objecting to butlers. 
General ; it’s the underlying falseness — the ridiculous pre- 
tense that shames and enrages me, and I’m determined to 
put a stop to it.” 

“Well, well,” responded the General, tolerantly. “I 
have no objections if you do not insist on making my jo’nal 
the champion of the old so’did life. Here we are. I’ll go 
in with you and pay my respects to Mistress Sadie.” 

The Watterson homestead stood surrounded by many 
giant oaks in the center of a vast lawn, which stretched 
away on all sides. It was a huge brick structure, old and 
grey and ivy grown. By contrast with the palatial mansions 
surrounding it, it looked old-fashioned enough with its 
unpretentious front and square-slated roof, but there was 
about it a snug, homelike atmosphere, which the modern 
and more imposing houses lacked. 

Sherman and the General made their way up the 
broad gravel walk approaching the main entrance, composed 
of doors of solid oak, sheltered by a very midget of a porch. 
They were met at the door by a stately lady. Aunt Sadie in 


36 


THE WATTERSONS. 


person, who greeted them in melting tones, giving both her 
hands to the General, who bent and kissed them in courtly 
fashion. A beautiful woman in the very prime of life, tall, 
robust, with smiling brown eyes and the color of a rose. 
Aunt Sadie, as she stood enframed in the doorway, beauti- 
fully gowned in shimmering grey satin, looked the personi- 
fication of all that is sweet and womanly in a woman. 

''Won’t you come in. General?'’ she asked, retreating 
into the hall and thence into the parlor, with Sherman fol- 
lowing after. 

The General made his way more slowly, smiling to him- 
self a little, and arrived to find the good lady seated in a 
great rocker, looking exceedingly flushed and somewhat 
tousled about the hair. Sherman stood by her side, hold- 
ing one of her hands. 

"Look at her, General,” cried the boy, ardently. "The 
most beautiful woman in all the world!” 

"Goodness me !” cried Aunt Sadie, laughing ; "he 
doesn’t mean it. General; he doesn’t mean it at all.” 

"Oh, but I do. The General and I have settled it long 
ago. You are the most beautiful woman in all the world.” 

"My, gracious me !” gasped Aunt Sadie, patting her 
hair in great confusion. "You mustn’t say that, darling.” 

"Yo’ boy is going to spend the evening at headqua’ters. 
Mistress Sadie,” said the General. "With yo’ kind pu’mis- 
sion, madam,” he added, bowing with his hand on his heart. 

A heart-stricken "Oh!” escaped Aunt Sadie, though 
she hastily put up her hand to smother the little sound. 

"But, of course, you shall have him. General,” she said, 
quickly. 

"I am sorry to take him from you, madam, but it is 
now or never, as you cannot fail to see. When Myrtle 
retu’ns it will be all up with me.” 

The thought so tickled Aunt Sadie that she forthwith 
went oflf into a spasm of delighted laughter. 

"Indeed, yes. General, indeed, yes,” she cried, when at 
last she could. speak. "My boy loves her dearly; do you 
not, my darling?” 

Sherman hugged the smiling lady by way of reply, and 
patted her cheek with a gentle hand. 


MR. MARBLEMORE BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN. 37 

“And she loves my boy/' continued Aunt Sadie, nod- 
ding with a knowing air. “We’re all looking forward to the 
dear child’s arrival. She would have returned with Clara 
months ago, but you know Richard’s home-coming inter- 
rupted her studies. Poor Richard ! However, what I say 
is. General,” continued Aunt Sadie, settling herself firmly 
in her rocker, and assuming a look of much determination ; 
“she should never have been permitted to go. College is 
all well enough for men, poor things, but women do not need 
so much education. Do not you agree with me. General?” 

“I do indeed. Mistress Sadie, I do indeed,” replied the 
General, bowing. 

“Women naturally are wiser than men,” continued Aunt 
Sadie, meditatively. “No doubt colleges were founded for 
that very reason — to enable men to attain woman’s stand- 
ard. Is that not true. General ? I have always thought so.” 

“Not a doubt of it, madam.” 

“Right, Auntie, right,” cried Sherman, delightedly. 

“And so I think it is wrong for women to invade the 
colleges,” pursued Aunt Sadie, with a charming pursing of 
the lips. “It can mean but one thing — men will be obliged 
to study years longer, which,” concluded Aunt Sadie, shak- 
ing her head sorrowfully, “would be a pity, seeing that the 
sooner they leave college, the sooner they marry and settle 
down. No, General, the child should never have been per- 
mitted to go to college — and so I tell Winfield. 

And having settled the matter to her satisfaction. Aunt 
Sadie gave herself a little shake and beamed like a noonday 
sun upon her boy. 

“Of course, you will stay to supper. General?” she 
said, hopefully. “You do not mean to carry my boy away 
at once?” 

“At once, madam,” replied the General, inexorably. 
“The boy shall dine with me. Come, boy. Here comes 
Benjy with the carriage.” 

Sherman embraced his good aunt, who accompanied 
them to the outer door, where they parted, the good lady 
remaining to the last, gazing after her darling boy. 


CHAPTER III. 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL BECOMES REMINISCENT. 

Benjy was an antiquated darkey, rather blacker in 
hue than the proverbial raven’s wing, with a ragged grey 
beard and a broad fringe of snowwhite wool visible beneath 
the brim of an old and battered slouch hat. The carriage 
was a double-seated surrey, drawn by an exceedingly surly- 
looking pony. Sherman clambered into the seat beside the 
General, and Benjy touched the pony with the stub of a 
whip he carried. The little animal, resenting the old negro’s 
dig, started with a jump, whirling the vehicle around with 
dizzying rapidity. 

“Pony’s feeling good, Benjy,” said Sherman, genially. 

Benjy spat reflectively, and half turning his shaggy 
grey head towards the young man, said gravely, “Spec’s he 
am, Marse Shu’m’, spec’s he am, sah.” 

“Feeling his oats, eh, Benjy?” 

Benjy looked at him out of the corner of one eye and 
surveyed the pony out of the corner of the other, and 
gravely replied : “Spec’s he am, Marse Shu’m’.” 

“The General is thinking seriously of selling Daniel, 
Benjy,” continued the mischievous youngster. 

Benjy turned himself a little further around and cocked 
his eye at the General. 

“Likely boy, Marse Dave,” said he; “likely boy, sah.” 

“Not wu’th his salt,” growled the General. 

Again Benjy cocked his eye at him, then gravely shook 
his head. 

“Purty young, Marse Dave; purty young, sah,” he said. 

“He’ll get ovah that,” replied the General. 

Benjy pushed his hat to one side, until it hung pre- 
cariously over one ear and eye, and gravely scratched his 
woolly head while considering this answer. 

“Spec’s he will, Marse Dave,” he said, grinning widely. 
“Yah ! Yah ! Yah ! Spec’s he will, sah ! Mus’ tell Mam Sue 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL BECOMES REMINISCENT. 39 

dat. Yah! Yah! Spec's he will get obah it. LawdGawd! 
Yah! Yah! Yah!" ^ 

Benjy so shook with discordant laughter that he almost 
rolled out of the surrey into the narrowing road. Sherman 
roared lustily, for the sight of the old darkey's glistening 
little eyes and wide open mouth, showing two or three yellow 
stumps of teeth ; was irresistible. The General, too, relaxed, 
and became positively genial. 

''How old are you, Benjy?" he asked. 

"Bawn same day as Marse Dave," replied Benjy, with 
unusual promptness. "Mah mammy missed Marse Dave 
an' me same time." 

"So she did, Benjy," said the General, softly. "So she 
did, old friend." He put out his hand and patted the old 
darkey on the shoulder. "We're getting old, Benjy," he 
said. "We'll soon have to make way fo' the young fellows." 

"Not for a good long time. General," said Sherman, 
preparing to alight, as Benjy brought the pony to a stand- 
still in front of the General's headquarters. 

The house, glistening whitely through the trees and 
endless clumps of shrubbery, resembled an old and 
antiquated castle in miniature. A great dog came bounding 
to meet them at the gate — a handsome, thoroughbred New- 
foundland. He licked the General's hand, and looked up 
into his face out of a pair of remarkably intelligent eyes. He 
received a kind word and a pat or two from his master, then 
turned to Sherman, and, as if recognizing in him a com- 
panion with whom he could presume on a measure of famil- 
iarity, he reared himself up and placed his great paws on 
the young man's breast, lolling out his tongue, in what 
seemed a wide grin of welcome. 

"Down, Ca'lo, down," commanded the General. 

"Never mind. Carlo," said Sherman, gayly. "We 
understand each other, don't we, old boy ?" 

Holding the animal's enormous paws in one hand, he 
assisted Carlo in taking a few awkward steps toward the 
house, which evidence of friendly companionship so de- 
lighted Carlo that, when released, he bounded away, describ- 
ing the circle of the house and yard like lightning. 

"Welcome to headqua'te's, Sherman," said the General, 


40 


THE WATTERSONS. 


turning up on the wide veranda and holding out his hand 
cordially. 

They went into the house preceded by majestic Carlo, 
and were met on the threshold by an old negress, whose 
shining fat face was folded up into a thousand wrinkles, each 
and every wrinkle a glowing smile. She wore a red hand- 
kerchief bound around her head, and waddled along, fat and 
quivering, like an animated feather-bed. 

'‘Lawd Gawd ! Marse Dave,'’ was her greeting. “Has 
yo' fetched Marse Shu'm'? I decla' to de Lawd dey is not 
a single ting to eat in de liben house ! I decla' to de Lawd, 
dey isn't." 

“Come, now. Mam Sue," said the General, smiling. 
“Nothing at all?" 

“Nope, Marse Dave, nope," said Mam Sue, shaking her 
head very firmly, but smiling all the time. 

“Mam Sue has the finest dinner waiting for us. Gen- 
eral," asserted Sherman, smiling, “that we ever sat down to." 

“Go 'way, Marse Shu'm', shouted Mam Sue, doubling 
up with a shriek of laughter. “Go 'way, sah." 

She waddled away, still laughing and chuckling, and 
Sherman seated himself in a comfortable armchair opposite 
the General, and prepared to await Mam Sue's pleasure. 

There was an air of old-fashioned comfort about the 
house that made him long to stretch his legs in luxurious 
ease. The rooms were large and lofty, and most comfort- 
ably arranged with wide double doors opening into each 
other, all draped in thick portieres, looped back for conve- 
nience of passage. They were furnished with a simplicity 
that was almost primitive. The floors were uncarpeted, but 
painted a brownish color. There were wide fireplaces in 
the walls, and here and there was placed a roomy armchair 
or a table, but there was nothing superfluous, nothing out 
of place. The windows were wide and high, with small 
panes of glass and deep embrasures, all curtained in snowy 
lace and glittering with neatness. Various pictures, the 
portraits of eminent Southern commanders of the war, 
adorned the walls, but even these were plainly framed, sim- 
ple and unostentatious. 

Daniel came in as soon as the General had seated him- 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL BECOMES REMINISCENT. 4I 

self with his guest. He bore a small tray, upon which was 
placed a long-necked bottle and glasses. 

''Help yo’self, boy,’’ said the General, setting an 
example. 

They drank, then rose, for Mam Sue’s black face was 
shining like a sun, between the portieres leading into the 
dining room. 

The dining table was laid for two. The General waved 
his guest to a seat opposite his own across the snowy board, 
and Benjy, arrayed in glossy black, with an immense ex- 
panse of snowy shirtfront, solemnly began his office by 
carrying a covered dish from a neighboring sideboard and 
placing it at the General’s hand. 

"Ah, Mam Sue,” said Sherman, gayly, shaking his 
finger at the shining black face he saw peeping in at the 
kitchen door. A half-suppressed shriek of laughter an- 
swered him as he fell to. 

"Mam Sue was prepared fo’ you, you see,” said the 
General, genially. 

"She’s a jewel. General, a treasure beyond all price. I 
shall entice her away from you when I go to housekeeping, 
I give you fair warning.” 

A second shriek from the kitchen told him that Mam 
Sue had overheard his bold declaration. 

The General, with true hospitality, neither pressed his 
guest with unwelcome zeal, nor neglected him, but con- 
tented himself with setting a noble example, and Sherman 
ate heartily of Mam Sue’s preparation. There were fried 
chicken, sweet potatoes, cornbread and beat biscuits. There 
were various vegetables, served as no one in the world but 
Mam Sue could serve them; there were delicacies of which 
Sherman knew not half the names nor the ingredients, save 
that corn played a very large part in them. Given plenty of 
cornmeal and lard and honey. Mam Sue could do things 
undreamed of by a northern cook. She was a genius in the 
line of cooking, and she knew it, and gloried in her skill and 
reveled in the praises of the General’s guests. 

"As I have often said. General, and shall often say 
again, no doubt, if this is Southern cooking, then Northern- 
ers know not how to live,” thus spoke Sherman, again and 


42 


THE WATTERSONS. 


again renewing his attack upon Mam Sue’s delicacies. The 
General, well pleased with the boy’s praises, relaxed into 
beaming smiles, and Mam Sue behind the kitchen door 
chuckled and cast loving glances at the handsome profile of 
her master’s appreciative guest. 

Benjy attended them with a gravity and decorum 
amounting to solemnity, and when he had placed the coffee 
upon the table, he brought a box of cigars, then disappeared 
into the kitchen. 

'‘You have taken to smoking, I see,” said the General, 
approvingly, "and are not afraid of a glass of good old 
wine. Come, come, that’s something; thah’s hope for you 
yet. Benjy, a bottle of wine. I daresay I shall never suc- 
ceed in making a reprobate of you, howevah.” 

Sherman’s strictly moral life and temperate habits fur- 
nished the General with unending amusement. He was for- 
ever poking fun at him, calling him a woman, a milksop and 
what not, seeking in many ways to tempt him a step aside 
from the path of virtue, which, in his professed opinion, was 
unworthy a man. But he was secretly proud of the boy, and 
it would, without doubt, have grieved him sorely had Sher- 
man taken that step to which a less strong and firm char- 
acter would have been driven by his blistering gibes and 
endless mockery. 

"You remind me very much of a young friend I had 
years ago. He was a Vu’ginian bawn and bred like myself 
— a Mo’ton belonging to the Mo’tons, originally from Mary- 
land, and connected with the Kimbalts of that State, though 
remotely — the very best stock. Gawge Mo’ton was one of 
the quietest and gentlest young gentlemen in the State. He 
drank no wine, nevah touched ca’ds, cared nothing fo’ 
ho’sses, and seemed to shrink from the society of ladies — in 
a word, a pu’fect ancho’ite. He was a bookworm, fond of 
writing poetry and essays on religious subjects. Being rich 
and handsome, and connected by blood with the very best 
families, he was natchally much sought aftah, but he very 
rarely accepted any of the numerous invitations showered 
upon him. Howevah, one day he went in my company to 
an affa’h given by the Livingstons — one of the oldest and 
wealthiest families in Vu’ginia. General Henry V. Living- 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL BECOMES REMINISCENT. 43 

ston, our host, a gentleman who had attained the age of 
ninety years, had fought with Washington, suh, a man of 
fine appearance and of military bearing, as became his train- 
ing, and a great favorite with the ladies, suh. It was afta' 
the afifa’h and while in my company that my gentle friend 
Mo’ton was taunted by the younga’ Elbridge, second son 
of Colonel Thomas P. Elbridge, one time Governo' of 
Vu’ginia, and a direct descendant of the John Elbridge, who 
signed the Declaration of Independence. He insulted my 
young friend, suh, taunting him with his seclusion and call- 
ing him, in efifect, a milksop. He was in drink at the time, 
suh, but that was ho excuse foh his conduct, suh. Gawge 
sent him a challenge, suh, as was natchal and propa'. I was 
his second, and young John Bolton, son of Eli Bolton, of 
Gawgia, and a visitor at the time in Richmond, acted foh 
the younga' Elbridge. The weapons were pistols, distance, 
ten paces, time, dawn. They met, and the younga’ Elbridge 
fell mo’tally wounded. He died an hour afta’ the meeting, 
suh ! Died like a gentleman reconciled to his hono’able 
advu'sary.’' 

The General poured a glass of wine, replenished the 
glass of his guest, and leisurely selecting a cigar, lit it and 
sat back puffing away with an air of great enjoyment. Sher- 
man sat in horrified silence. 

''That seemed to be the turning point in Gawge’s 
career,'’ continued the General, sadly. "He took to drink- 
ing, suh, to playing, to racing and to duelling. He became a 
frequenta' of questionable society. His old-time friends 
gradually fell away from him until but one remained. He 
probably thought that he could refo'm the lad, and he took 
it very much to ha'ht because he did not succeed in tu’ning 
his friend from his evil co'ses befo' the end came. Po' 
Gawge was shot and killed at a subsequent meeting, his 
adversary being none otha than young Bolton, the gentle- 
man who had acted as the younga' Elbridge's second on the 
occasion of Mo’ton's first meeting. Very sad." 

"How long ago was this. General?" asked Sherman, 
after a moment of ruminating silence. 

"In the early fo'ties, suh — twenty years befo' the wah 
— befo' those blue-bellied robbers came down and ruined our 


44 


THE WATTERSONS. 


homes and destroyed our peace and happiness, suh ! 1 was 

then about yo' age, and I may say it now, a great favo’ite 
with the ladies, suh. Yes, the ladies looked very kindly 
upon yo’ battered old friend in those dear old days,’’ he 
said, a smile of delight lighting up his rugged features. 

“They do now. General.” 

“Bah ! I am old, suh, old and worn. I have nearly 
completed the allotted span of human life, and the favo’s 
which the angels bestow upon me now are of the kind that 
children showah upon the grandfathah. Yes, suh, I realize 
my age, and know that nothing can compensate for glowing 
youth such as you possess, you handsome rascal. This 
world is foh the young, suh, and quite right. Those bowed 
in years should be content to stand aside and look on.” 

“Tell me about those old days. General. Tell me about 
the young ladies you loved and who loved you. Come, dear 
old boy, tell me.” 

“No, suh. I might tell you of those whom I loved, as 
I have often told you of one, but no gentleman mentions in 
idle conve’sation the name of her who has honohed him 
with her favah, suh. You never speak to me of Myrtle, 
boy.” 

It had never occurred to Sherman before, but it was 
certainly true that the name so constantly in his thoughts 
rarely passed his lips. She who bore it was in his eyes too 
sacred for ordinary converse. 

Daniel came in, bearing a large lamp, but the General 
waved him away. The rays of the moon, high in the heav- 
ens, streamed broadly into the dining room where the two 
men sat with the table between them. Daniel had long ago 
removed the dishes and replaced the crumpled cloth with 
another of richly embroidered material, placing the cigars 
and decanter exactly between his master and the guest. 

“Did you ever have a meeting. General — a duel, I 
mean?” asked Sherman, presently. 

“A dozen, suh.” 

“The deuce ! I didn’t know that duelling prevailed to 
such an extent in the forties.” 

“Bah ! One man may have a sco’ of meetings in a 
twelve-month when anothah quite as courageous passes un- 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL BECOMES REMINISCENT. 45 


scathed through life with fighting all around him. It is 
all temperament. I was a wild youth. I lost my mothah 
in my infancy and grew up wild and unregarded. My 
fathah rathah encouraged me in my excesses until I got 
beyond his control, then he unreasonably enough turned 
from me in angah. I had little schooling. I spent my 
time with companions as wild as myself in hunting, playing, 
racing and carousing. I had plenty of money. Through 
my mothah I inherited an independent fortune. I had 
nothing to do but pursue my own wild co'ses. I spent the 
most of my time in Richmond — Richmond, Vu’ginia, suh. 
Ah, those wa’h happy days ! The flower of Southern youth 
and beauty was gathered in that glorious old capital, suh.’' 

The General paused and smiled in musing delight as 
the scenes amid which he had passed his youth recurred to 
his memory. He cast aside his half-smoked cigar and sat 
with his legs crossed and his arm resting on the table, a 
glass half filled with wine in his hand. 

''Tell me about it. General.” 

"What shall I tell you, suh ? Wha’h shall I begin ?” 

"Well, tell me about a meeting — your first meeting.” 

"It was with one who had been my friend and boon 
companion — Henry Hamlin Gawden. He was connected 
with the Lees, suh — the Lees of Vu’ginia, although bawn 
and bred in Mississippi, whither his family had emigrated 
in the twenties. I met him at the capital, and finding him 
a handsome, refined, cou’ageous and high-minded gentle- 
man, not above having a fling now and then, we soon be- 
came fast friends and inseparable companions. Our friend- 
ship was so close and strong, and we wa’h so constantly 
together that we came to be spoken of as Damon and 
Pythias, suh, and no one thought of inviting the one without 
including the other, and we wa’h welcome everywha’h.’” 

"Then how did you come to quarrel. General?” asked 
Sherman, in some impatience. 

"It was ovah a woman, suh — a player, as we called 
them, with whom we both fell violently in love. Gawden 
presumed to call her honah into question. We had pu’sued 
our quest in pu’fect amiableness of spirit. Our rivalry only 
strengthened our friendship. We agreed the one that won 


46 


THE WATTERSONS. 


the lady’s favah should enjoy it, but when Gawden saw that 
I and not he was the favahed one, he fo’got his agreement, 
and in my presence presumed to call the lady’s honah into 
question, saying that her favahs wa’h divided between my- 
self and another whom he mentioned, offering at the same 
time to prove the truth of his assu’tions. Natchally in- 
censed at a statement so inju’ious to the lady in question, I 
gave him the lie and — well, a meeting was arranged. We 
wa’h both wounded, suh; mine proved nearly fatal, but we 
both recovered and shook hands at our next meeting like 
gentlemen.” 

“Duelling is, in my opinion, ridiculous,” said Sherman, 
“but in this instance. General, your conduct was certainly 
justified.” 

“How so, suh?” 

“I mean to say that in impeaching the honor of a vir- 
tuous young lady — ” 

“Who said she was vu’tuous, suh?” demanded the 
General. 

“Why — why, didn’t you resent an imputation reflecting 
upon her honor?” 

“Yes, suh, I su’tainly did, suh.” 

“Then, as I say, your stand was justified — if anything 
can justify so extreme a course.” 

“You don’t know what you are talking about, suh. No 
one said that the young lady was vu’tuous. No one at the 
time — much less I — believed her to be so.” 

“Well, great Lord! What did you fight for, then?” 

The General gave him a glance of deep compassion. 

“You are very young, boy,” he said. 

“Now, look here. General Hamilton,” cried Sherman, 
hotly, “if you fought a duel for the sake of a thing that 
never existed, you committed an exceedingly foolish action, 
sir. Rank idiocy, I call it.” 

“You have many things to luh’n, suh,” replied the 
General, frowning. “No gentleman, suh, will permit an- 
other to call into question the honah of a lady who has 
been kind to him.” 

“Certainly not. General, but to fight a duel — to risk 


[ IN WHICH THE GENERAL BECOMES REMINISCENT. 47 

murder and death only to repudiate a charge which, on the 

E face of it, was true ! Bah 

‘‘You are a No’thehioh, suh,'’ the General replied, with 
infinite scorn, “and you cannot undahstand these things. 
Let me tell you, suh, that in consequence of that meeting, 
I the cause of which was noised abroad, this young lady's 
I honah was so fu’mly established that she subsequently mar- 
ried into one of the oldest families of the South !" 
f “Poor family," scoffed the irreverent youngster. “I 

; should have thought now that such a meeting would have 
t established her dishonor beyond the shadow of a doubt." 

I “You are an impudent young puppy, suh, and if I 

I didn't love you. I'd cane you fo' yo' impudence." 

I Sherman laughed. 

: “You did quite right. General," he said, “in taking 

1 this young fellow to task. Only you shouldn't have gone 

SO far as a duel. Now, I would have knocked him down 
/ and let it go at that." 

“A gentleman, suh, never descends to ruffianism," said 
the General, with dignity. 

!‘I'd rather be a ruffian for two minutes than a mur- 
derer for the rest of my life." 

The General shook his head in great ill-humor. 

“How men have degenerated !" he sighed. 

Sherman, laughing, poured him another glass of wine 
I and lit a fresh cigar. 

I “Tell me about meeting Uncle Winfield, General," he 

I said. 

“It was after the battle of Chancello'ville, as I have 
frequently info'med you," said the General, sipping his 
wine, then pausing with the glass half filled in his hand. 
“After our great cha'ge, following Jackson's famous flank 
! movement, which gave to us that great victory, suh, we 
! came around, suh, and took yo' eleventh army co'ah in the 
rear, suh, and went through you like the lightning of God, 
suh, striking terror into the ha'hts of men as brave as any 
that ever shouldered gun in the history of the human race, 
suh ! Yes, suh, you have hea'd me characte'ize the Union 
soldiers variously, suh, but I wish to state explicitly that 
I do not include the brave men who took pa't in Fredericks- 


48 


THE WATTERSONS. 


bu’g and ChancelloVille in the sco'n in which I hold the 
entire no'the’n army. They were veterans, suh, brave men, 
who enlisted in the beginning of the wah from motives of 
patriotism as pure as ever inspired Southern breast. I call 
a man a cowa'd and hi’eling, suh, who stays at home when 
tha’h is fighting to do, who yields a deaf ear to the cry of 
his distressed country, suh, and then allows a bribe or 
bounty — call it what you will — to pu’suade him to shoot and 
stab his countrymen and brothers ! What do you call him, 
boy?’' cried the General, starting up with surprising agility 
and striding through the room waving his glass over his 
head in a passionate outburst of scorn and anger. “A man 
who will calmly sit at home, suh, until his country comes 
to his do’ with money in one hand and a draft in the other, 
and who accepts the one because he cannot avoid the other 
— what do you call him, I say? A patriot! Faugh! I 
would rather clasp the hand of an alien nigga, suh, as the 
hand of such a man. And I tell you, boy, that the No’th 
sent tens of thousands of such creatchas against us, and 
pu’mitted them to pillage our homes and lay waste our 
cities !” 

The General’s fury, mounting high as he poured forth 
these words, was beyond all description. Sherman sprang 
up in alarm, fearful of the ever-impending apoplexy. But 
the General waved him away, and collecting himself, he 
sank into his chair and bowed his head for some few 
moments in silence. 

‘^And these men are now fo’ the most pa’t posing as 
patriots and drawing pensions,” continued the General. 
‘'The heroes wa’h all killed off. Yes, suh. Those men at 
Fredericksbu’g and Chancello’ville wa’h brave men and 
noble fighta’s, suh. We held a range of hills at Fred- 
ericksbu’g, suh, a magnificent natchal fo’t with a plain ex- 
tending befo’ us to the enemy and behind us to the river — 
beautiful. They cha’ged us across that open plain, suh, time 
and again, coming in the teeth of a withering fire. They 
dropped like wooden pins befo’ our guns, suh, but they 
fo’med again, and again came on like devils in blue. I was 
a line officer then in old Early’s command. We wa’h in the 
second line, with Ewald and the Light Brigade ahead of us. 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL BECOMES REMINISCENT. 49 

and another line or two behind. Ah, but that was a mag- 
nificent battle ! I had not the honah to participate in Gettys- 
burg, but I do not believe, in spite of all accounts, that it 
was as great a battle as that. Yo’ General Humphreys, suh, 
was a hero. Yes, suh. And Chancellorville occived later. 
We came down on you then like a bolt of thunder, routing 
you completely. I fell early in that engagement, however, 
and know little about the maneuvers subsequent to Stone- 
wall Jackson’s flank movement in the woods. I fell and 
the battle passed over me. I fainted away from loss of 
blood, flowing from two bullet wounds, and awoke to see 
nothing but the blazing wood on my right and to hear the 
groans of the dying all around me. I was tah’ibly thu’sty, 
and I remember calling for water, and calling in vain. I 
must have fainted again, for what I remember next was 
dark night and a cooling draught of water flowing down 
my throat. I opened my eyes and, close to me — bending 
over me — I saw yo’ face — yo’ uncle’s face, I mean, but 
so like yo’s that I have but to look at you to recall that 
moment vividly. He was clad in fatigue unifo’m and was 
out, as I discovered later, on his own account succo’ing and 
relieving the afflicted. You may see by that how very like 
Aunt Sadie he is in natcha. While other young offlcers slept, 
this young man, whose wo’k was of the hardest, without 
hope of glory or advancement, was out tramping over the 
battlefield, cooling the pa’ched throats of enemy and friend 
alike. His face to me looked like the face of an angel, and I 
loved him from that moment. He carried me in his arms to 
the Union hospital and saw to it that I had immediate su’gi- 
cal attendance, and in the long days that followed, he was 
my constant friend. I shed tears, I know, at pa’ting, when 
some weeks later I was exchanged and returned to my 
army. That was how I first met yo’ uncle. After the wah 
’ we wrote each other, renewing our friendship. I found the 
I South little to my liking. It was overrun with plunderers 
— our homes wa’h laid in ruins, our su’vants scattered to 
the fo’ winds of heaven. All was ruin and desolation. Old 
families wa’h broken up or entirely extinct. I tu’ned my 
back upon it all — desu’ted my po’ bleeding country because 
I could not bear to look upon her sufifering, and came to 


THE WATTERSONS. 


50 

the smiling No'th, to my friend. In my wild career as a 
young blood I not only ran through my matu’nal inheri- 
tance, but so oflfended my fathah that he cut off all allow- 
ance from me, and fo’ some years befo’ the wall I was 
obliged to earn my living, which I did by entering the pro- 
fession of jo'nalism, which required little education. A man 
of natchal talent, having fo’med the habit Df thinking inde- 
pendently and possessing the knack of putting his thoughts 
into vigorous English could make his way with the pen 
easily enough. The wah reconciled me to my fathah, suh, 
who fell upon the field of battle a grey-headed, noble old 
man.'’ 

''Have you ever been South, General, since the war?" 
asked Sherman. 

"No, suh. Nor shall I ever return. I desu’ted her, suh, 
in her hour of darkness, and I do not desuVe ever to have 
my bones laid in her hallowed soil." 

His voice trembled a little as he spoke these words, and 
Sherman fancied that his breath came almost with a sob. 

"Nonsense, General," said the young man, vigorously. 
"You stood by her nobly in her hour of darkness. You 
fought for her like a loving son." 

"Thank you, suh," said the old man, softly. 

"Let us drink to the old South, General — the South 
you know and love," said Sherman. 

"I do not wonder that everyone loves you, boy," said 
the General. "Let us drink." 

They drank solemnly. 

"It is time to retire," said the General, rising. 

"Marse Dave," said a soft voice. They turned to find 
Mam Sue standing behind them smiling timidly. 

"What is it. Mam Sue?" asked the General, kindly. 

"Ah wants to ask Marse Shu'm' one Ling," said Mam 
Sue, casting a beseeching glance at the young man. 

"Go ahead. Mam Sue," said Sherman, laughing, "if I 
can in any way repay your excellent care of me when I 
came out here — " 

"Go 'way, Marse Shu'm'. Go 'way, sah," said Mam 
Sue, bursting into a little shriek of laughter. "I want to 
ask yo' one t'ing, Marse Shu'm'," she continued, turning 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL BECOMES REMINISCENT. 5I 

her bright eyes and shining black face upon him. '‘Is yo’ 
goin’ to marry little Dimples?’’ 

"Little Rosie,” cried Sherman, a good deal astounded; 
"why no. Mam Sue!” 

"Oh, Ah’s sorry,” said Mam Sue, in a tone of keen 
regret. "Ah’s so sorry.” 

She waddled away, shaking her head mournfully. 

"What does she mean?” asked Sherman. 

"Dimples is her pet,” replied the General. "She is the 
one white child who has ever loved or pu’mitted Mam Sue 
to love her. A little white girl to love is almost a neces- 
sity to a woman reared as Mam Sue has been. The Rose- 
woods wa’h our close neighbors during Rosie’s earlier child- 
hood, and Rosie spent whole days with Mam Sue, and Mam 
Sue loves her better than her own child. She rega’ds you 
with a favo’ble eye, and with yo’ madcap elopement in 
mind, she has always thought since that you two would 
some day make a match of it. So, she is natch’ally dis- 
appointed to learn that you are not going to marry her 
little pet. But come, you must be tired. You know yo’ 
room, and Daniel will attend you’. Good night, boy.” 

They shook hands and parted, Sherman going, under 
Daniel’s officious directions, to his chamber above stairs and 
to bed. 


CHAPTER IV. 


IN WHICH THE REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE MAKES HIS 
APPEARANCE. 

Aunt Sadie, like other good women, had her little con- 
ceits and vanities. She took a fine pride in her pretty color, 
for example, in her superb figure and luxuriant hair; and 
very likely experienced her moments of demure glory in 
triumphing over her neighbors in matters of personal adorn- 
ment. She was as individual in attire as in person. Though 
invariably clothed in sober hues, each new gown, in the 
matter of tasteful decoration, was distinct from all others. 
She possessed, in an eminent degree, the quality of lending 
a charm and grace to everything she wore. Her ample 
skirts gave the effect of clinging drapery and produced, as 
she moved with charming grace among her sisters, a frou- 
f rotting that betrayed underlying silks and laces of immacu- 
late purity and crispness. Every part of her attire was 
exactly as it should be, dainty, elegant, tasteful and precise, 
and she carried herself with an air of calm confidence born 
of an assured conviction in its irreproachable character. 

On this particular Sunday morning, as Aunt Sadie, 
leaning on her boy’s stalwart arm, moved sedately up the 
aisle of the beautiful new church in the wake of her brother 
and his daughter, she looked particularly demure and inno- 
cently unconscious of the pretty hat she wore. Doubtless 
she was aware of Mrs. Delaware’s flashing glasses, of Mrs. 
Hammersmith’s reluctant admiration, of Mrs. Bennett’s dis- 
gust and of Mrs. Thompson’s dismay ; doubtless, I say, she 
marked the general stir created by her entrance; but if so, 
she gave no outward sign of internal glee, nor by so much 
as a glance betrayed the gratification which so distinct a 
triumph inspired. She wore her usual bright smile; her 
glance, as it swept around the church, flashed kindness and 
good-will everywhere. She pressed her boy’s arm proudly, 
and by a swift glance aside, seemed to invite the attention 
riveted upon her to his magnificence. 


REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE. 


53 


''Look at my boy, good friends,'' her eyes said. "Do 
not notice me. Look at my boy, my sweet, beautiful boy. 
Is not he grand? Is he not handsome? The image of his 
uncle, my dear, good brother, and like his father in heart, 
gay and saucy, but oh, so loving and lovable ! Do look at 
him, dear friends." 

Her own eyes became warm with tenderness when they 
dwelt on him. And so they proceeded up the wide aisle a 
step or two behind Myrtle and Mr. Watterson, until, arriv- 
ing at their own particular corner, they merged into the 
waiting throng of worshippers. 

The church was rapidly filling with handsomely 
gowned women and their glossy escorts. It was the first 
church in the city in point of wealth and fashionable attend- 
ance, standing in the heart of the aristocratic district, a 
beautiful and costly edifice, built of white stone, with twin 
steeples tapering towards the skies and a grand sweep of 
steps between. It was newly erected and newly inaugurated 
with new furnishings within, and a brand new pastor who, 
on the morning of our attendance, entered the brand new 
pulpit for the third or fourth time. 

The Reverend Mortimer Ringrose, though extremely 
new, was already very popular with his congregation, espe- 
cially with the feminine part thereof. He was in the first 
place an exceedingly handsome man, having the face of an 
angel, as Aunt Sadie frequently observed, which, indeed, 
was true, if the angel of the good lady's imagination wore 
a short rippling beard of inky blackness and thick, wavy 
hair of the same glossy hue, and a complexion of wax-like 
whiteness, with the faintest possible tinge of rose under- 
lying and glowing through it. Angels, no doubt, too, have 
large melancholy eyes and teeth of dazzling purity and 
hands as white as hands can possibly be, for all these his 
reverence possessed. And in addition, a fine figure, with 
broad shoulders, a slender waist and sturdy underpinning. 
He was a little above the medium height of men and was 
perhaps thirty-five or six years of age. 

Naturally such a paragon of manly beauty was adored 
by the good sisters, who argued, no doubt justly, that a 
vessel so consummate without could not but be perfect 


54 


THE WATTERSONS. 


within, which seeming assumption satisfied the old, and 
was not needed by the young. But the Reverend Mortimer 
Ringrose had more to recommend him than his looks. He 
was an orator of no mean ability, a singer of quality, a 
brilliant conversationalist and a man of many worldly 
accomplishments. He was a married man, a fact which 
brought forth many a sigh from many a fair sister in his 
flock. 

If the male members of his congregation did not look 
upon the Reverend Mortimer Ringrose with quite the same 
degree of devout reverence which he attained in the eyes of 
the good sisters, they nevertheless regarded him very highly. 
A certain smiling good-fellowship which he displayed in his 
intercourse with the younger set; a certain gravity he 
assumed towards the older set, and a certain deference he 
showed towards the powerful set, won upon them all. 
There was no hypocrisy about the Reverend Ringrose, the 
younger men were wont to declare. He never quoted scrip- 
ture at you ! Not he ! He had no moral maxims to hurl 
at your head. Not at all. On the contrary, he would smile 
indulgently at your little follies until indulgently you smiled 
with him. It was Human Nature, said the Reverend Morti- 
mer Ringrose. Human Nature was weak. Human Nature 
was erring. Human Nature was evil. In giving way to the 
weakness of Human Nature you were not at fault. Human 
Nature was — an amazingly comfortable doctrine, and its 
founder was, you will agree, deservedly popular among all 
manner of men and women. 

His entrance this morning created quite a stir. All 
eyes were directed at him, for he was still very new. He 
bowed his head for a moment in an attitude of humility and 
began to pray in a deep and fervent voice, standing with his 
white hands demurely folded, and his eyes now raised rever- 
ently to the ceiling, now lowered humbly to the floor. 

He thanked the Lord for life and health during the 
preceding week, and for the bounties conferred upon them. 
His children. He besought Him to continue His care dur- 
ing the ensuing week, and to bestow all possible favors upon 
them as heretofore. He acknowledged that they were but 
helpless worms in His eyes, and conceded that without His 


REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE. 


55 


watchful hand to guide them they could accomplish noth- 
ing. He recalled to Him their eflforts in behalf of the 
heathen, laying great stress upon the unexampled generosity 
of certain members of the flock over which it was his pride 
and joy to watch. He begged for His divine guidance in 
the future, reminding Him that many of those assembled be- 
neath that humble roof had been burdened by Him with 
vast wealth, the possession of which imposed onerous duties 
and responsibilities which, without His peculiar care, would 
be too heavy a load to bear. And lastly, he earnestly 
begged His forgiveness for the weaknesses of erring Human 
Nature, and besought Him to strengthen Human Nature 
by infusing into it a portion of His Divine Spirit, so that 
strong and holy in spirit, they might fight the battle of life 
to His satisfaction, and finally enter into their reward in 
the kingdom of heaven. 

'‘Let us sing,” said his reverence, gently, upon con- 
clusion of the prayer. "Let us sing number one hundred 
and twenty, 'I’ve Reached the Land of Corn and Wine.’ ” 

Leaves began to flutter prodigiously, the beautiful roll 
of the organ filled the sacred edifice for one moment, and 
then the congregation lifted up its voice and sang, the 
Reverend Mortimer Ringrose accompanying with voice 
and hand to the end. 

The song concluded, he gave out his text, which had to 
do with a certain journey Queen Bathsheba had undertaken 
and accomplished to King Solomon. The sermon that fol- 
lowed was not very long, nor in itself lofty or inspiring, but 
it was delivered with such brilliance of execution, such an 
uninterrupted flow of beautiful words and accompanied by 
such graceful gestures of the arms and movements of the 
body, as the preacher swayed this way and that within the 
narrow compass of the pulpit, that his auditors sat in a kind 
of spell watching him and drinking in his words — a hushed 
and intensely interested throng. 

He began by calling their attention to the fact that it 
was Queen Bathsheba who had visited King Solomon, and 
told them to bear this in mind, as it was a fact of vast 
importance. He then asked why Queen Bathsheba had 
visited King Solomon, and proved conclusively by many 


56 


THE WATTERSONS. 


references to the Bible that it was because she wished to 
make him many valuable presents. Then he asked: “Why 
did she wish to make him many valuable presents?” and 
proved beyond the peradventure of a doubt that it was for 
the honor and glory of God. For no one could doubt that 
by making many valuable presents to King Solomon she 
was indirectly serving God by serving Solomon, who was 
God’s servant. He told them particularly to remember that 
Queen Bathsheba had made the journey on the backs of 
camels and not on horses; and, pausing long enough to 
inquire why she had used camels and not horses, he gave 
them to understand that she thus conferred greater honor 
upon King Solomon, and, consequently upon God, by using 
the more expensive camel in place of the insignificant horse. 
For it was a well-known fact, as could be easily proven by 
the Bible, that the greater the splendor in which you served 
God, the better would He be pleased. 

This, in substance, divested of all superfluous verbiage 
and glamour, was the sermon. To any thoughtful person 
in that congregation, this discourse, though delivered with 
force and apparent sincerity, must have seemed more than 
trivial — absolutely farcical in its far-fetched argument and 
reasonless vacuity; but fascinated by the preacher’s person- 
ality, his musical voice and superficial smoothness, they sat 
for the most part in smiling complacency. 

Drawing lessons, in conclusion, his reverence brought 
his discourse to bear on the proper way of serving God. He 
drew their attention to their peculiar responsibilities, in 
that by virtue of their exalted station, they were looked up 
to by the entire city. He put it to them : How could they 
better serve God than by setting a noble example in every- 
day life to those beneath them? He exhorted them to en- 
deavor to overcome the weaknesses of Human Nature and 
to combat as far as possible the errors arising out of those 
weaknesses. 

“Human Nature is weak, we know,” said his reverence, 
in conclusion, “weak and erring, alas ! but it is God’s will 
that we try to overcome the temptations, the trials, the 
tribulations that we, owing to the weakness of Human 
Nature, are subject to, and we can best serve God, and bene- 


REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE. 57 

fit our fellow-creatures by obeying His divine will in this 
and in all things/' 

''A beautiful sermon, truly," said Mrs. Hammersmith, 
smiling fatly, '‘really Sadie, he is a treasure." 

Aunt Sadie, however, looked exceedingly thoughtful. 
It was only during the week days when, meeting his rever- 
ence on terms of social intimacy, that he seemed to her an 
angel. In church on Sunday, listening to his vapid dis- 
course, she felt vaguely uneasy and ashamed, and Winfield, 
she saw by his expression, shared her feeling. Mr. Win- 
slow had sent her home a penitent, remorseful creature, but 
under Mr. Ringrose she felt no such remorse or penitence, 
only a kind of humiliation in herself and shame for him. 
But then Aunt Sadie's mind was not as shallow as the minds 
of those around her. Winfield shared her feeling; Myrtle 
looked grave, and Sherman scornful, but the others were 
smiling brightly and pressing around His Reverence who, 
according to old-fashioned custom, came out among them 
to greet his parishioners after the service. They pressed 
around him eagerly. Nothing could be sweeter than his 
smile, nothing heartier than the clasp of his hand. He went 
from group to group as they stood chattering, shaking hands 
with entire families, with substantial business men, hand- 
some matrons, pretty girls, young men and children. The 
solid men generally received him heartily with just a sug- 
gestion of patronage mingling with admiring regard in their 
manner; the matrons with placid pride, the girls shyly, but 
with evident pleasure, the young men with an ofif-hand 
show of good-will ; and so variable was he of expression 
and so mobile of feature, that he could at a moment's notice 
adopt his demeanor to the case in hand. 

That His Reverence was not one to distinguish between 
poverty and wealth, witness how willingly he relinquishes 
wealthy Mrs. Bennett's yellow claw for the plump white 
hand of Mrs. Rosewood, whose poverty was well known. 
Nay, he lingered over her hand and looked into the pretty 
widow's bright arch eyes with a good deal more of warmth 
and friendly regard than he bestowed upon the fishy orbs 
of Mrs. Murly, wife of the wealthy merchant of that name. 
Aunt Sadie received him proudly, if a little shyly; Myrtle 


58 


THE WATTERSONS. 


with smiling composure; Mr. Watterson with his usual 
grave courtesy, and Sherman with scarce concealed scorn, 
which was not, however, intended for the Rev. Mr. Ring- 
rose personally, but for the entire order, for which the 
youth, as a radical, entertained the profoundest contempt. 
Mr. Marblemore offered him a great red hand with the 
manner of a man bestowing half his fortune ; but his 
frigidity of manner was in a measure atoned for by the 
warmth of Clara’s greeting. Mrs. Marblemore looked- at 
him curiously and met his fine eyes fixed in unmistakable 
admiration upon her face. She did not turn away her eyes, 
but with a slight deepening of color in her cheeks, met his 
proffered hand, still with that curious glance, but with some- 
thing of imperious surprise added — a glance such as a queen 
might flash at a too audacious subject. But His Reverence 
met it steadily, smilingly, and her glance roved away in 
confusion. 

Sherman was standing somewhat apart awaiting Myrtle 
whom he hoped to escort home, when a familiar voice struck 
upon his ear. 

'‘Hello, Sherman,” it said, as its owner, a tall young 
man, came up, holding out his hand and smiling brightly, 
“glad to see you.” 

“Ah, Elmer, back for good?” 

“I guess so.” 

“College life agree with you ?” 

“Yes ! Oh, so-so. Isn’t that Myrtle over there?” asked 
Elmer, following Sherman’s glance, which wandered every 
moment to a/ group formed of three or four young ladies, 
who stood chatting at some distance. 

“Yes. You haven’t met her since her return from col- 
lege? But, of course not. Come on over and I’ll introduce 
you.” 

The chatter ceased abruptly as the two young men 
approached the group, and four pairs of roguish eyes were 
turned interrogatively upon them. 

“An old friend of ours. Myrtle,” said Sherman, intro- 
ducing Elmer. 

“Won’t you shake hands with your old tormenter. 


REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE. 59 

Myrtle?'’ asked Elmer, holding out his hand with a win- 
ning smile. 

‘‘Em glad to see you, Elmer," replied Myrtle, giving 
him her hand and smiling cordially, ‘‘I heard last evening 
of your return." 

'‘I am sure these are old friends of mine," said Elmer, 
looking around at the smiling girls. ''Speak, fair damsel; 
art not thou the fair Rosamund, Dame Langhorn’s far- 
famed daughter?" 

The fair Rosamund pleaded guilty amid a chorus of 
delighted little shrieks. 

"And thou, beauteous maid," continued the droll rogue, 
"dost not own to the name of Daisy, daughter of the house 
and heart of Dayton? Speak!" 

Daisy, giggling like a mad creature, surrendered her 
hand into his by way of confirmation. 

"And little Rosie, by all that is good and beautiful !" 
cried Elmer, turning to the last of the four, who had shyly 
withdrawn behind Myrtle. "Haven’t you a kind word for 
an 6ld friend, Rosie?" Rosie came out from behind her 
friend, blushing very much, and offered him her hand. 

"Sh !’’ whispered Daisy, "here comes Mr. Ringrose." 

"Let us go," said Myrtle, placing her hand on Sher- 
man’s arm. Elmer drew the little hand he held through 
his arm, and followed with Rosie. 

The throng of worshippers gradually thinned out. His 
Reverence continued to the last, shaking hands and bowing, 
with his sweet smile flashing here and there and everywhere. 
The Wattersons were gone, the Thompsons, too; stout Mrs. 
Hammersmith, with her mild, gum-chewing husband, the 
Judge, and her daughters were driving away, and lastly the 
Marblemores went, sweeping past behind a prancing pair of 
bays. Mr. Ringrose stood on the steps of the church look- 
ing thoughtfully after them. When they were quite gone 
from his sight he clasped his hands behind him and, smiling 
gently to himself, proceeded slowly towards the pretty par- 
sonage near by. He was met at the door by a thin little 
woman carrying a baby in her arms, with two of larger 
growth clinging to her skirts. She had once been pretty, 
no doubt, with a transient prettiness that had not survived 


6o 


THE WATTERSONS. 


maternity. She was dark and small, and very slight of build. 

‘‘Was the attendance large?’’ she asked, wrinkling her 
forehead as if her soul’s salvation depended upon his 
answer. 

“Yes, quite large,” he replied, avoiding her glance in 
the way peculiar to men who merely tolerate, but do not 
love, their wives. 

“Baby was so sick that I couldn’t come,” said Mrs. 
Ringrose. 

He snapped his fingers at the child with a show of 
^miling good humor. 

“No harm done,” he said. “Do you know the Marble- 
mores?” he asked, presently. 

“Only by sight. He seems very cold and stern.” 

“He is,” he replied, frowning. “And she?” 

“She has been away. She returned a few days ago.” 

He said no more. There was about him an air of cold- 
ness and reserve while conversing with her that more plainly 
than ever emphasized his toleration and lack of regard. She 
did not seem to notice this, however, but full of maternal 
worries and cares, she began an endless, aimless account of 
baby’s ailments and her treatment of them, to all of which 
he listened with ill-concealed impatience. 


CHAPTER V. 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GIVES A DINNER. 

Elmer had taken possession of little Rosie, and Myrtle 
had placed her hand on Sherman’s arm quite as a matter 
of course, and thus walking arm in arm, they left the church 
in the wake of the throng of worshippers. 

“You must stop for dinner, Elmer,” Myrtle turned 
around to say. “I promised Aunt Sadie to bring you.” 

“The usual Sunday dinner, eh?” replied Elmer, smiling, 
“Pm with you.” 

It was a beautiful day. The sky was clear; the heat 
of the sun was tempered by a refreshing breeze, which came 
sweeping in soft waves from the south. The tender green 
foliage rustled and whispered overhead, and the birds, dart- 
ing in and out, piped their joyous lays as it were, in emula- 
tion of the sunshine and the flowers. 

“What a beautiful day !” said Myrtle, drawing in a deep 
breath of delight. 

Sherman did not reply, but gazed down into her eyes 
as proudly as if he owned them. 

“Is not the day beautiful, Sherman?” asked Myrtle, 
demurely. 

“Very beautiful,” he replied, but his gaze was bent 
persistently downward. 

“Do look, Sherman.” 

“I am looking, darling.” 

“At the sky, I mean,” cried Myrtle, laughing. 

“It is reflected in your eyes,” replied Sherman. 

“Oh!” Myrtle shook her head in gentle disapproval. 
“Pm glad to be at home again,” she added, squeezing his 
arm and dancing in bouyant delight. 

“Are you. Myrtle? Why?” 

“Because of my distinguished cousin, of course!” said 
the girl, mockingly. 

''Are you glad on my account. Myrtle?” asked the 
young man, softly. 


62 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Of course, and Papa's and Aunt Sadie's and oh, on 
everybody's account," replied Myrtle, laughing at his look 
of disappointment. Glancing around at Rosie and her hand- 
some escort, she whispered, "Isn't she pretty, Sherman? 
And don't they look lovely together ?" 

Sherman agreed fervently, though he did not take the 
trouble to look around. Myrtle shook him playfully by the 
arm, and bounded onward with that elastic step, which is 
given only to maidens blessed with light spirits and abound- 
ing health. 

Rosie, following demurely behind, with one little un- 
gloved hand resting lightly on her stalwart companion's 
arm, did indeed look pretty, and Elmer was the very picture 
of a gallant, dashing lover, such as young girls love to 
dream about in waking and in sleeping hours. His voice 
was very gentle and low when he spoke to her; his eyes 
were tender, his smile wondrously sweet. Rosie's heart 
fluttered strangely as she walked along, keeping time with 
the cherry colored ribbons in her pretty pink and white 
gown, which streamed quite gaily to the breeze. 

"It is two years since I saw you last, Rosie," Elmer 
was saying. 

Why, so it was ! He had returned but once for a brief 
visit during his four years at college. Rosie remembered 
his coming, and how kind he had been to her, and with a 
rising throb she recalled her sadness when he went away. 

"How long it seems. Doesn't it seem long, Rosie?" 

"Why no ! That is not so very long." Rosie was quite 
confused. 

"Do you remember the old days, Rosie?" continued 
Elmer. "What a little madcap you were ! And what fun 
we used to have !" 

"You used to tease me dreadfully," said Rosie, dimpling 
suddenly, and giving him a momentary glimpse of her 
pretty, dark eyes. 

"You liked it, though." 

Rosie was not at all sure. 

"Oh, but you did !" cried Elmer. "You were such a 
cunning little thing." 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GIVES A DINNER. 63 

^‘Myrtle was dreadfully afraid of you in those days/^ 
said Rosie. 

“Was she?’’ replied Elmer, gazing thoughtfully at the 
tall, slim girl, walking some paces ahead of them. “I believe 
she was. I was awfully mean then. When did she return ?” 

“Only yesterday. Isn’t she sweet? Aunt Sadie is so 
proud of her.” 

, Myrtle turned around at this moment. 

“Are you coming in, Elmer?” she asked, coming to a 
pause before the old, gray, ivy-grown mansion. “You will 
meet lots of old friends,” continued the young lady, turn- 
ing in upon the broad walk. “Isn’t it nice to be at home 
again. You will come, of course, Rosie? The General will 
be here and he will be so disappointed if his little Dimples 
isn’t here to meet him.” 

Rosie demurely acquiesced, and still gallantly escorted 
by Elmer, followed Myrtle and Sherman up the broad walk 
into the house. 

There were many guests in the great parlor, staid 
matrons, pretty girls, solid business and professional men 
come to partake of Aunt Sadie’s hospitality ; and there was 
Aunt Sadie herself, bustling about with prodigious energy, 
but finding time in the midst of her hurry to greet Elmer 
and Rosie, and smile upon her boy. 

“You have come home for good now, Elmer?” she said, 
beaming upon him. “I’m so glad. I’m delighted ! Did you 
meet my boy? Do, do sit down, my dears, dinner will be 
ready very soon now.” 

She kissed little Rosie affectionately, then went bus- 
tling into the dining room, thence into the kitchen to over- 
see the preparations for dinner. She was in and out of the 
parlor every moment, looking very important and stately, 
but in the end, attracted by the chatter of feminine tongues 
about her, she plumped herself into a great rocker, in the 
midst of a bevy of gossiping dames, and became at once the 
storm center of the conversation. 

General Hamilton was the last guest to arrive. Aunt 
Sadie greeted him cordially. 

“Ah, Mistress Sadie,” said the gallant old warrior, 
bending over her hand, “you are looking cha’ming as usua^ 


64 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Aunt Sadie, smiling pleasantly, gently patted her hair. 

“I attended suVice this mo’ning. Mistress Sadie, as 
you commanded me.’’ 

‘'Commanded, General !” 

“Yo’ slightest wish, madam,” said the old warrior, 
bowing, “is a command to yo’ most devoted suVant.” 

“Very well. General,” cried Aunt Sadie, laughing. 

“I hu’d yo’ new minister,” continued the General, “and 
all I can say is, if this mo’ning’s disco’se measahes the 
depth of eitha his piety or his powahs, then both are exceed- 
ingly limited.” 

“I am so sorry. General,” said Aunt Sadie, in a troubled 
voice, “everybody seems so pleased with him,” she added, 
appealingly. 

“Even the Majah?” 

“Winfield says nothing.” 

“Ah !” 

“Don’t let us talk about it. General,” said Aunt Sadie. 
“Have you seen, Elmer? He has returned and Mary is so 
proud.” 

“A straight, handsome lad,” said the General, looking 
at the young man, who was talking with Rosie in a window, 
“but not to be compared with Sherman.” 

“My boy,” said Aunt Sadie, proudly, “is the sweetest 
boy in the world.” 

“Boy,” cried the General, and Sherman, tearing himself 
from Myrtle’s side, came forward smiling, “were you down 
to the office this mo’ning, suh?” 

“Yes, General ; I got the last papers off before eight.” 

“Good. Ah, little Dimples.” 

The General turned to greet Rosie, who came tripping 
up to him, holding up her arms to embrace him. 

“Well, my young reprobate,” he continued, shaking 
hands with Elmer, who followed Rosie,“ you have retu’ned 
to plague us again, have you? If all repo’ts conce’ning yo’ 
careah at college are to be credited, young man, you desu’ve 
a sound haw’se whipping.” 

“They are greatly exaggerated. General, I assure you,” 
said Elmer, smiling. 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GIVES A DINNER. 65 

''Ha! are they?'’ the General shook his head very 
fiercely. "Well, we’ll see.” 

Aunt Sadie, with a word of excuse, left the group, and 
hurried into the dining room, while the General went in 
search of his host, whom he found in the adjoining study, 
sitting serene and smiling in the midst of a prodigious 
clamour of voices. Some six or seven gentlemen were gath- 
ered around the big, genial politician, and an animated dis- 
cussion was in progress. Mr. Bennett was contending sin- 
gle-handed against them all on some more or less important 
question of local politics. Jolly Billy Boyle was there, as 
gorgeous as a sunflower, with a smile a yard wide over- 
spreading his cherubic countenance. Then there was Mr. 
Bloomfield, a big, burly, bald-headed gentleman, lawyer and 
bachelor; Mr. Delaware, Dr. Fairfield and Mr. Harrington, 
a lawyer of depth and learning. 

'‘But if Dillingham joins forces with Southgate,” Mr. 
Bennett was saying, as the General joined the group, "it’ll 
all be up with the regular organization.” 

"Who says that Dillingham will join fo’ces with South- 
gate?” demanded the General. 

"I was speaking of possibilities. General,” said Mr. Ben- 
nett, lowering his voice a trifle and turning very red. 

"The’h is no such possibility, suh.” 

"I appeal to Mr. Watterson.” 

"Don’t Bennett,” cried Mr. Watterson, laughing, "don’t 
appeal to me, pray.” 

"Dillingham, suh,” cried General Hamilton, fiercely, 
"is to be trusted. Who da’hs to say otha’wise?” 

"Not I, General,” replied his host, smiling. "You shall 
not involve me in a quarrel, old friend.” 

The General brought the ragged ends of his thick 
mustache together beneath his obstinate chin and gave 
them a delighted tug. 

"Southgate is very active,” murmured Mr. Bennett, 
valorously. 

"So is Satan, suh.” 

"And both are reaping a rich harvest,” cried Billy 
Boyle, going ofif into a ripple of rollicking laughter. 

"No, suh, no such luck,” continued the General. 


66 


THE WATTERSONS. 


'‘Southgate is a fool, suh. If, instead of putting a thu’d 
ticket in the field, he had remained aloof in the last cam- 
paign he would have retained the sympathy of the rank and 
file of the Republican pa’ty ; as it is he must control the regu- 
lar convention, or he is done fo’, suh ; the pa’ty will tole’ate 
no such fiasco next year as the last, fo’ which Southgate was 
responsible/’ 

“But how can he control the regular convention unless 
Dillingham turns against Watterson here and joins hands 
with him ?” 

“Be silent, suh,” roared the General, “you don’t know 
what you are talking about.” 

“Come, Bennett,” said Mr. Watterson, whose great 
shoulders shook with silent laughter. “It is useless to con- 
tend with the old rebel.” 

“Well, all I’ve got to say,” said Bennett, doggedly, “is 
that unless the regular organization nominates Sagamore 
for Governor it stands no chance. And Dillingham is ter- 
ribly down on Sagamore.” 

The General was preparing a thundering rejoinder 
when, fortunately. Aunt Sadie appeared in the doorway with 
a beaming smile, to announce dinner. They repaired in a 
body to the dining room, and gathered around the table 
which, in the good old phrase, groaned beneath its burden 
of good things. 

The Wattersons were old-fashioned folk, who ate their 
breakfast, dinner and supper at the old-fashioned hours, 
morning, noon and night, placing their all before you with- 
out stint or reservation. The big-bellied soup tureen was 
flanked on one side by a great round of roast beef, and on 
the other by a savory brown capon. Dishes of vegetables 
were placed here and there indiscriminately. Plates stacked 
high with white and brown bread, cut in thick slices, should- 
ered glass stands of frosted cake and platters of cookies; 
tremendous pastries alternated with fruits and doughnuts 
and puddings. There was butter, fresh from the farm, great 
glass pitchers full of milk, honey in the comb and biscuits 
hot from the oven. 

Mr. Watterson presided, a ruddy good-humored Goliath 
in his seat of state, wielding the carving knife with the dex- 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GIVES A DINNER. 


67 


terity and grace gained by long practice. Aunt Sadie, from 
her place at the lower end of the board, beamed like a noon- 
day sun around at her friends. The General sat on her 
right and Elmer on her left, who gallantly attended to little 
Rosie's wants, as Sherman assiduously waited on Myrtle. 

Franklyn, at a neighboring sideboard, poured the coffee, 
and in his stately fashion attended to the wants of all. 

The guests conversed in amiable undertones on topics 
ranging from happenings in their little city to subjects of 
world-wide interest. The ladies took an active part at times, 
and at times sat silent, listening. Mrs. Bennett and Mrs. 
Delaware had a thousand things to talk about, not having 
met since the previous evening. Mrs. Billy Boyle conversed 
in low tones apart with Mrs. Harrington, whose low laugh 
mingled frequently with the shrill cackle of that jolly soul. 
The old bachelors, Mr. Bloomfield and Dr. Fairfield, vied 
with Sherman and Elmer in gallant attentions upon the 
young ladies. 

''Now that you have retu’ned from college, young 
man," said the General, addressing Elmer, "what do you 
propose to do?" 

"Nothing much." 

"What! You are going to idle? Come, boy, that will 
neva' do. Be a loafer? Faugh!" 

"I am thinking of starting a journal in opposition to 
the 'Chronicle,' " said Elmer, gravely. 

"No doubt, suh, you can establish a jou'nal," replied 
the General, frowning down the laughter called forth by 
Elmer's declaration, "money will do that, but it takes brains 
to run it, young man." 

"Money will also buy brains. General." 

"But if you pu'chase brains, suh, whe'h will yo' sha'h 
of the work come in?" 

"My part will be scattering the profits. General." 

"And you are excellent in yo' pa't, I unde'stand !" cried 
the General, chuckling. "Well, boy, enjoy yo' youth." 

"I mean to," said Elmer, with a smile at Rosie, who 
looked down, dimpling. 

"My eastern exchanges, Majah, say the President is 


68 


THE WATTERSONS. 


about to call an extra session of Congress to discuss this 
Cuban affa’h/’ said the General, after a pause. 

“That is probably a mistake, General.’’ 

“And why, suh?” 

“Well, there have been no developments since the close 
of the regular session to warrant such a step, for one thing ; 
and, for another, the President has never shown himself 
over-zealous in Cuba’s cause.” 

“You are a Republican, suh.” 

“Just so,” replied his smiling host, “but I am first of 
all an American. I would not have you understand that I 
disapprove of the President’s stand. On the contrary, I 
admire his sturdy, common sense and applaud his caution. 
A man less rugged, less strong of mind and firm of purpose 
would yield to popular clamor, and plunge the nation into 
war — which, in my opinion, would be a calamity unutter- 
able.” 

The General frowned grimly, shaking his obstinate old 
head. 

“Cuba must be liberated,” he said. “Wah or no wah, 
it is our duty to go to the relief of the people of that un- 
happy island, suh.” 

“Diplomacy, General, will accomplish all and more 
than war.” 

“My opinion is that we’d better keep out of it entirely,” 
said Mr. Bennett. “It’s none of our business. Let Cuba 
take care of herself. Business conditions of the country 
demand — ” 

“Yo’ opinion, suh,” interrupted the General, fiercely, 
“is of no consequence whateva’.” 

“I agree with Bennett,” said Elmer, pertly. 

“Natchally. Puppies and fools are mentally of much 
the same caliba’,” replied the old warrior, scathingly. 

The discussion became general. Mr. Harrington sided 
with Mr. Watterson, agreeing that conditions in Cuba were 
fast becoming intolerable, and that something must be done, 
but that to plunge the nation into war would be both crimi- 
nal and needless. Blooomfield, Billy Boyle and the General 
declared for war, war to the death and at once. Mr. Ben- 
nett, with Elmer, alone to assist him, was soon put to rout. 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GIVES A DINNER. 69 

the more especially as the ladies unanimously took sides 
with Mr. Watterson or the General. 

''War would be terrible/' said Mrs. Boyle, stoutly, "but 
war or no war, as the General says, Cuba must be freed." 

"My dear," said gentle Mrs. Harrington, "you have 
no children." 

Aunt Sadie looked on smiling in tranquil enjoyment, 
until Sherman, suddenly striking into the discussion, 
declared for war, and with characteristic impetuosity 
announced his purpose in event of war of raising a company 
of volunteers. Whereupon Aunt Sadie became as timorous 
and anxious as if war were already proclaimed. Myrtle's 
expression, too, changed from a look of quiet interest to 
quick alarm, as she looked into the young man's flushed 
face. 

"Really, General," said Aunt Sadie, entreatingly, "it 
is wrong to talk of anything so dreadful as war." 

The General bowed and instantly withdrew from the 
dispute, which thereupon fell to the ground. 

Dinner over, the guests departed, according to custom, 
to spend the remainder of the Sabbath with their families. 
Elmer and Rosie remained, and with Sherman and Myrtle 
went out upon the lawn to stroll in the shade of the trees, 
where, presently, the young people were joined by many 
others of their own age. 

The General joined Mr. Watterson on the lawn and 
there, with his arm linked into that of his old friend, they 
marched slowly up and down the length of the walk, eagerly 
pursuing the argument begun at table. 

"I tell you, Majah, it is high time that we did some- 
thing to relieve the people of that unfo'tunate island." 

"You are right. General," replied Mr. Watterson, "let 
us drive out the Spaniards and take possession immediately. 
Then we'll Americanize the Cubans thoroughly." 

"You irritate me, suh! Americanize 'em! Does that 
mean that they are to be extu'minated as wa’h the unhappy 
Indians, suh?" 

"The survival of the fittest. General," rejoined the big 
man, calmly. 

"Release my ahm, suh !" cried the General, hotly. "If 


70 


THE WATTERSONS. 


you wa’h not so old a friend, Majah, I’d cut yo’ acquaint- 
ance, suh, upon the honah of a gentleman!” 

''But I am too old a friend. General,” said Mr. Watter- 
son, whose great shoulders shook with internal laughter. 
"Be tolerant, old friend. I have for twenty years been im- 
ploring your toleration. General.” 

"And fo’ twenty years I have been the most tolohant 
man in these pa’ts, suh,” said the General, hotly. "It is you 
who are intolohant, suh ! You ! It is men like you — men 
with brains and men of honest convictions, but with 
pu’ve’ted methods of thinking who make true progress im- 
possible. You are intolohant of human life, suh ! You talk 
of progress when the kind of progress you aim at means the 
total destruction of ignohant, savage peoples, suh !” 

"The survival of the fittest. General,” said Mr. Watter- 
son, who took a great delight in arousing his leonine old 
friend. "True progress is impossible until the weeds of 
the human race are eradicated. The goal toward which we 
are tending is far, far in the distance.” 

"We can attain that goal, suh, without slaughta’ing 
inoffensive creatchas, who have not sufficient unda’standing 
to climb towa’ds it alone. The rankest weed will yield to 
propa’ cultivation, suh, and grow in time into a beautiful 
flowa’. So education will enable these po’ uncivilized peo- 
ples to climb along with us.” 

"My dear General,” cried Mr. Watterson enthusiasti- 
cally, "I agree with you entirely in that. That is what I 
have been advocating for years — education and equaliza- 
tion of the races. But let us begin at home, old friend. Let 
the Southern negro, for example, be educated up to the 
standard of the whites ; let them compete equally with them, 
live on equal terms, in a word, share the rewards, the glories 
of life as well as its labors and its trials.” 

"Majah, yo’ are insulting!” cried the General. 

"By no means. General. That is the progress you aim 
at, only brought nearer home.” 

"Majah,” said the General, impressively, "the nigra’ is 
nigra’ and he nevah will be anything but a nigra’, suh ; and 
as a nigra’ he should be kept down, suh; down to the 
ground wha’h he belongs. To advocate nigra’ education is 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GIVES A DINNER. 7I 

a crime, suh ; to speak of the nigra’s equality with the white 
man as a thing possible, even in the remote futcha’ is an out- 
rage, suh, and an insult to every white man on the face of 
the earth, suh.’’ 

'‘Then let us exterminate them,” said Mr. Watterson, 
with a wave of his hand, implying great ruthlessness. 

"No; that would be wrong, for every one of God’s 
creatchas has a right to life in the sphere into which God 
called him. But keep them down, I say ; keep them in tha’h 
places ! An ass’s place is in the ha’ness between the shafts, 
suh, su’ving the nigra’ ; the nigra’s place is on the box, suh, 
holding the reins, su’ving the white man. If God had de- 
signed the ass to be the nigra’s equal, suh. He wouldn’t 
have made an ass of him but a nigra’, and if He had meant 
to place the nigra’ on a footing of equality with the white 
man. He would have made him the white man’s equal in 
colla’, blood and brains, suh !” 

The old warrior, highly pleased with himself, withdrew 
him arm from that of his old friend and brought the ends 
of his shaggy mustache together beneath his chin and gave 
them a delighted tug. 

"I shall answer your argument, sir, at another time,” 
replied Mr. Watterson, majestically. 

"And, why not now, Majah?” cried the General tri- 
umphantly, "why not this instant, suh ?” 

"Because I see Daniel approaching with the day’s news- 
papers,” said Mr. Watterson, laughing, "and I will not 
attempt to rival your beloved exchanges.” 

The General, indeed, lost all interest in the discussion, 
and all thing-s else at sight of his exchanges. Hastily call- 
ing for his cane, he took from Daniel his favorite sheet and, 
bidding his host farewell, he proceeded leisurely homeward, 
followed at ten paces by his black attendant. Mr. Watter- 
son retired into his study with various big dailies, and there 
continued for the next three hours, engrossed in the news 
of the day. His own likeness, grotesquely distorted by 
humorous cartoon and caricature, looked out at him from 
their pages; his name figured prominently in the political 
news of the State and in weighty editorials. The first called 
up a smile every now and then on his grave face ; the last he 


72 


THE WATTERSONS. 


read with more or less attention, according to the degree of 
weight he attached to the pronouncing organ. 

He was still deep in the news reports at dusk when 
Aunt Sadie came into the study dressed for the street. 

"‘Fm going to see a friend or two, Winfield, my boy 
and I,’’ she said, drawing on her gloves with an air of de- 
mure importance. ‘'If Andrew and Mary come while Tm 
gone, tell them that I shall be back early.’’ 

She bent down and kissed him, putting her arms around 
his neck to give him a squeeze. She was the most affec- 
tionate of women, was Aunt Sadie ; she could no more help 
showing her love to those about her than a beautiful flower * 
can help diffusing its delicious fragrance on all around. So 
she hugged her brother and kissed him and pressed her soft 
cheek to his bearded one, quite as if she were starting on 
a journey around the world, from which she could not hope 
to return under eight or ten months. 


CHAPTER VI. 


IN THE EVENING. 

The Marblemores came during Aunt Sadie's absence, 
and shortly after Mrs. Rosewood, Rosie's mother, a pretty 
dark-eyed little widow, arrived. The ladies joined the young 
folks in the parlor, while the banker retired with Mr. Wat- 
terson into the latter's study. Elmer seated himself with 
little Rosie at a small round table, where they presently be- 
came deeply interested in the pictures in the family album. 
Myrtle, with Clara Marblemore by her side, occupied a 
settee in a corner between two windows. Mrs. Marblemore 
and Mrs. Rosewood, sitting at an adjoining table, discussed 
the fashions as pictured in the pages of a magazine. 

^'What do you think of the new minister?" asked Mrs. 
Rosewood, suddenly, interrupting herself in an animated 
description of a certain gown, she had seen that morning 
at church. 

“He is very eloquent," replied Mrs. Marblemore. 

“Oh, isn't he ! He has such fine eyes and teeth. Every- 
body admires him." 

“For his eyes and teeth?" asked the banker's lady, 
laughing. 

“Why not," replied the little widow, “I think him very 
handsome." 

“One does not, I imagine, much regard a minister's 
looks," replied Mrs. Marblemore, indifferently. 

Turning the leaves of the magazine they chatted rather 
listlessly of the various styles portrayed there. From time 
to time the voices of the young ladies, sitting cosily in the 
corner, came to them. Clara was chattering with such ani- 
mation, and Myrtle, sitting pensively by, was listening rather 
absently to her friend's lively discourse. 

“Oh, here comes Aunt Sadie and Sherman," she cried 
suddenly, and rising she beckoned imperiously for Sherman 
to approach. Sherman approached smiling. He looked very 


74 


THE WATTERSONS. 


tall and broad and handsome as he came up with his fingers 
thrust negligently into the pockets of his sack coat, which he 
habitually wore half open, with only the lower button fast- 
ened, in swagger fashion. There was something charm- 
ingly boyish in the expression of his clear brown eyes. He 
bore himself with a modesty and grace that won him the 
liking of everybody. 

“We were just talking about you,” said Clara, looking 
up at him coquettishly. 

She was always making eyes at him — a thing Sherman 
detested. 

“I have been greatly honored,” he replied, smiling, but 
evading her glance to look into Myrtle's pensive eyes. 

She returned his gaze thoughtfully, as it were, absently. 
How wonderfully like her dear father he was ! 

“What do you suppose we were saying?” asked Clara. 

“I couldn’t imagine,” Sherman replied, abstractedly. 

“Guess !” 

“Guessing is tiresome.” 

“Oh, you lazy giant! Make him guess. Myrtle.” 

“Clara was saying that you were very handsome, Sher- 
man,” said Myrtle, smiling mischievously. 

Sherman’s cheeks grew red, for he felt that she was 
laughing at him. He glanced angrily at Clara. That young 
lady had covered her face with her hands, and was peeping 
between her parted fingers at him. 

“Oh. Myrtle !” she cried, “you naughty girl, I meant 
what we were saying just before he came in.” 

“Clara thinks that you are a great editor, Sherman,” 
said Myrtle, “on the strength of a little essay of yours.” 

“Did you write it, Sherman?” cried Clara, opening 
wide her eyes, “really write it? Oh, it was grand!” 

All of which was extremely distasteful to Sherman, for 
looking down into Myrtle’s smiling eyes he felt sure that 
she was laughing at him. He sat down at some distance, a 
little sulky, and Clara went on with her chatter, glancing at 
him very often to assure herself of his admiring gaze. His 
eyes were both admiring and adoring, but they were per- 
sistently fixed upon Myrtle who, from time to time, gave 
him a thoughtful glance in return. Her eyes were so soft 


IN THE EVENING. 


75 


and kind and sweet in their expression when they looked at 
him, and withal so beautiful in themselves that his sulkiness 
melted away, and he waited with intense eagerness to meet 
her momentary gaze so that he might express the devotion 
of his heart in his own. Clara's presence jarred upon him; 
her chatter irritated him. He had not yet outgrown his cub^ 
hood, and consequently did not take very great pains to con- 
ceal the state of his mind towards her. But Clara paid no 
heed to his ungracious attitude, his little glances of dis- 
pleasure, his short answers and general expression of ill- 
humor. Myrtle sat beside her animated companion very 
quiet and thoughtful, with her hands resting idly in her lap. 

They were both beautiful, these two, but after a dif- 
ferent fashion. Clara's hair was dark, coarse of fibre, thick 
and abundant, while Myrtle's was of a light auburn hue, 
very soft and silky and luxuriant. In the soft light, the 
difiference in shading was barely perceptible, and in this 
one feature the two girls were alike. In all others they 
were as wide asunder as the poles. 

Clara's beauty was of the robust kind, such as is given 
to folk reared on a diet of fruit and milk and vegetables, 
with acres of pure air to inhale and an ocean of sunshine to 
bathe them in. Her cheeks were round and full, and like 
two ripe apples of a never-varying red, which delicious color 
spread in a lesser degree over all her face and neck in mo- 
ments of excitement or after undue exertion. Her really 
fine eyes were dwarfed and made smaller in appearance, as 
was her nose by the overfulness of her cheeks. Her mouth 
was sweet and tempting in repose, with full ripe lips and 
splendid teeth, but a smile always played about it, a wide full 
frank expression of her nature, but not becoming, for her 
cheeks did not dimple but formed into wrinkling folds, 
which greatly marred the .beauty of the face as a whole. 
Her chin was strong in outline, and her forehead ample and 
exposed to the full. 

She was tall of stature, and of robust proportions, with 
wide shapely hips, a full womanly bust and a waist of great 
natural thickness. She was a very good-natured girl, con- 
stantly smiling and laughing when with those whom she 
considered her social equals, but like her father, bearing her- 


76 


THE WATTERSONS. 


self coldly and haughtily in the face of the world. Clara 
took great pride in her athletic achievements, and spoke with 
gle^ of her triumphs in many branches of athletic sport. 
She was an expert swimmer, a good horsewoman, a cham- 
pion of the bicycle, had won medals in running and in 
jumping, and was renowned for her strength of muscle and 
power of endurance. She was a new woman, she said, 
proudly, a modern maid capable of coping with tyrant man 
in any field, and with great physical strength and develop- 
ment she combined a bright, if not a brilliant mind, full 
to overflowing with iconoclastic theories on woman’s rights 
and privileges. 

Myrtle was taller than her smiling friend, reaching well 
up to gigantic Sherman’s shoulders, indeed, when she stood 
very straight, and her figure was gracefully rounded, and 
firm and well proportioned. She was slender, without that 
look of thickness and repression so observable in her com- 
panion. Her face was pure in outline, with clear-cut feat- 
ures, of a large mould. Her cheeks were thin, and their 
thinness was greatly augmented in appearance by the im- 
mense breadth of brow above, and the strong outline of 
chin below. Her color was of the kind that can only be 
described as a pensive paleness, very clear and transparent, 
with now and then a faint rosy glow. Her eyes were grey 
in color and very large and beautiful, and as gentle in their 
bright and pure expression as any fawn’s. Her voice, like 
Aunt Sadie’s was clear and low and deprecating, and her 
smile frequent and pleasant to behold. She had a strong 
sense of humor this young lady, and was possessed at times 
by a spirit of mocking mischief, amounting to maliciousness. 
She had altered in one important particular during those 
years at college. She had acquired a certain air of calm 
repose that never forsook her. She was no longer shy and 
retiring, as in childhood, but calm and self-possessed in 
whatever company. 

Such were the two young women sitting opposite Sher- 
man, the one chattering and laughing and chirruping gayly, 
the other thoughtful and silent in the midst of her friend’s 
animation, both casting kind glances at the indolent young 
fellow, and he striving eagerly to catch the glance of Myrtle, 


IN THE EVENING. 


77 


but more often receiving Clara's full battery instead. He 
was obliged to look at Clara from time to time to answer 
her questions, but he did so with an ill grace. He liked her 
weir enough, he told himself irritably, but he would have 
liked her better if she would quit bothering him. She 
admired Sherman greatly, that was certain. She singled 
him out quite openly and frankly. When they met at a 
ball, a party, a picnic, or at church, she came to him smiling 
brightly, and compelled him to talk to her, to attend upon 
her and to escort her home, in the end remaining persist- 
ently good-humored and smiling in spite of his sulkiness and 
ill-humor. Other young men crowded around the hand- 
some, good-natured young heiress, and eagerly pressed their 
homage, but she turned up her nose at them all, reserving 
her sweetest glances and brightest smiles for this unap- 
preciative young cub. He did not like it — he disliked it very 
much indeed. He was a modest young man and he writhed 
with fury and embarrassment and gritted his teeth beneath 
the merciless General's blistering gibes, when Clara coming 
quite openly in her carriage, sought him out at the office 
down town to carry him off to some afternoon affair, or 
merely to sit half an hour in chat with him. Whatever 
this young lady's faults were hypocrisy certainly was not 
among them. She showed her preference for him openly 
and proudly. She was willing to bestow her handsome per- 
son and all her riches upon this young man, and she told 
him so in every way short of actually proposing marriage 
to him. 

''Sherman," Clara was leaning towards him with 
an expression of pleading in her eyes and puckered lips, 
"please don't look so cross." 

"I'm not looking cross," said Sherman, in a very cross 
tone indeed. Myrtle persistently avoided his glance, and 
he felt very sulky in consequence. 

"All great men are cross, Clara," said Myrtle, gravely. 

Yes, she was laughing at him. Sherman became 
moody, not to say gloomy, at this. But chancing to glance 
down at her hands he saw and instantly recognized a ring 
she wore as one of his giving. Yes, he knew it well — a 
slender little band of gold with a small ruby set in a cluster 


78 


THE WATTERSONS. 


of sparkling diamonds. She had dozens of rings he knew, 
but she had chosen his simple gift out of all of them ! And 
there on her breast was a little knot of flowers whicji he 
had brought that very evening ! Why, what a fool he was ! 
Why, the very watch she wore, impaled on her bosom, was 
a present of his ! And the brooch at her throat ! Good 
heavens, what an idiot he was ! He brightened up with 
the thought, and Clara attributing his sudden animation to 
her soft glances, redoubled her smiles. But Myrtle had 
noticed his glance, and quickly covered the ring with her 
hand, manifesting a little confusion in her manner as for 
a moment she met his rapturous glance. Ihe look she gave 
him was delicious. Sherman sprang up in pure delight, then 
sat down again with equal suddenness. He was not sure 
about the watch. 

''What time is it. Myrtle?’' he asked, coloring a little, 
for he was literally surrounded by clocks of all sizes and 
kinds. Aunt Sadie’s collection of pretty treasures, and they 
were one and all ticking away with great industry. 

"It’s just eleven o’clock,” said Clara, forestalling Myrtle 
quickly. She, too, had a watch, and a very pretty one, all 
crusted over with jewels, which flashed brilliantly in the 
light. 

Sherman did not look at her, but kept his eager eyes 
fixed upon Myrtle. She had made an involuntary movement 
toward her watch, but let her hand fall again when Clara 
announced the hour. 

"Please, Myrtle,” said Sherman. 

"It’s eleven o’clock, I tell you,” cried Clara, impatiently, 
"look at the clocks.” 

"Hang the clocks,” replied Sherman, stubbornly. "I 
want to see Myrtle’s watch.” 

Myrtle colored a little and laughed, but he had his way 
and he saw that it was indeed his gift to her. His picture, 
taken with her when a rough young cub of sixteen, was in 
the case, placed there by Myrtle’s own hand. 

"It’s two minutes past eleven,” said Myrtle, demurely. 

"Thank you,” said Sherman. 

"Now he’s satisfied,” cried Clara, pouting. "Every- 


IN THE EVENING. 


79 


body spoils him ; and quite right, too ! There comes our 
papas.’’ 

Mr. Watterson and Mr. Marblemore came in from the 
study and stood for some minutes talking together in the 
threshold. Myrtle threw a kiss to her father, with a little 
arch movement of the mouth that thrilled Sherman through 
and through. Her love for her father was quite as deep as 
of yore, but not as all-absorbing. Her eyes dwelt lovingly 
upon him, but she remained where she was, yielding the same 
abstracted attention to Clara as before. Clara, too, smiled 
and waved her hand at her father, whose loud, laughing 
voice, drowned out all other sound in the room. 

'T mean it, Winfield,” he was saying. ''And so I told 
Dillingham and Sutherland. The only man I’ll stand back 
for is Winfield S. Watterson. I said to Dillingham : 'If he 
says that he wants the seat, I have nothing more to say; 
but if not I’ll go in for it and buy it out and out.’ Why not? 
Why not do openly that which is done secretly right along? 
I’m above board. I say I’ll give a hundred thousand dollars 
in cold cash to be made United States Senator from Illinois.” 

"Don’t talk nonsense, Andrew,” said Mr. Watterson, 
frowning. 

The banker laughed, and the conversation drifted to 
other matters of current interest. How oddly like her father 
in her open candor Clara was, Sherman reflected ruefully, 
i, As the banker approached the group formed by the 
three elder ladies to exchange a word of greeting with Aunt 
Sadie, Mrs. Marblemore arose and crossed the room towards 
Mr. Watterson. Her movements, as she .went to meet his 
quiet approach, were slow and graceful. She smiled 
brightly up at him, and placed her small, plump, white 
^ hand on his arm. 

"Are you not proud of Myrtle, Winfield?” she asked, 
softly. 

"Very proud, Mary,” the big man replied, glancing in 
his daughter’s direction. "You, too, have cause for 
pride,” he added, nodding towards Elmer. "A handsome 
lad, Mary; Clara, too, is a very beautiful young woman. 
Andrew has told me of his hopes in that direction.” 

"They will, I fear, never be realized,” said Mary, shak- 


8o 


THE WATTERSONS. 


ing her head. ''They are not very friendly. Elmer is 
wild, and Clara has such strange notions. Nor is Myrtle 
wholly free from vagaries.’’ 

"But, are they vagaries, Mary?” 

"Oh, Winfield! Do you believe in them?” 

"I am not quite prepared to go so far,” Mr. Watterson 
replied, smiling broadly. 

"Whatever Mr. Watterson’s daughter may advocate,” 
said Mrs. Rosewood, who had joined them during the fore- 
going dialogue, "you may be sure Mr. Watterson will in- 
dorse, for never were there two such loving hearts.” 

"Thank you,” replied Mr. Watterson, bowing. 

But his tone was constrained, his glance cold when it 
rested on the little widow. He had lost almost all respect 
for Mrs. Rosewood; so persistent was her pursuit, so ardent 
her court of the big, handsome widower that she had be- 
come almost hateful to his sight. He turned away in evi- 
dent relief in answer to his sister’s voice, who called him 
at that moment from the other end of the room. 

"It is utterly useless. Rose,” said Mrs. Marblemore, with 
the ghost of a smile playing around her lips. 

"Thank you,” responded the little widow, flushing. 
''You should know.” 

It was now Mrs. Marblemore’s turn to flush hotly. 
Scarlet her cheeks became; her eyes flashed ominously, but 
meeting the little widow’s snapping eyes, she turned away 
without reply, and crossed the room in the regal fashion 
that characterized her, joining the group formed by the 
banker and their host and hostess. Mrs. Rosewood gazed 
after her with a bitter little smile, but sighed a little heart- 
breaking sigh as her glance again fell upon Mr. Watterson. 

It was useless, she owned, and deep down in her heart 
she wept with mingled rage and shame, though her eyes 
remained tearless. 

"Whose picture is that, Rosie?” asked Elmer, softly, 
bending low to look into his pretty companion’s shy, dark 
eyes. 

"One of Myrtle’s college friends,” replied Rosie, giving 
him the merest flash of a glance. "Her name is Mary \Vool- 


IN THE EVENING. 


8l 


worth/’ she added, for his further information, ''Myrtle 
spent all of one vacation with her traveling.” 

'‘Did she, indeed?” said Elmer, abstractedly. 

"Yes,” said Rosie, very earnestly, "she lives in Chicago, 
I believe.” 

'And this one?” 

"That is Fanny Rowland,” said Rosie, looking up, "you 
should know her.” 

"So I do,” said Elmer, smiling. 

"She is very pretty,” said Rosie, surveying the picture 
with her little head held very much on one side. 

"I know a prettier,” said Elmer, and Rosie bent lower 
still over the album. 

She was an exceedingly pretty girl was Rosie, not very 
tall to be sure, but slenderly fashioned, neat and trimly 
rounded, with the prettiest, sweetest, rosiest face in the 
world. At least so Elmer thought, and many and many a 
young man concurred with him in thinking. She was so 
shy, so modest and timid that she hardly dared to raise her 
voice above a whisper, and rarely gave him more than half 
a glance at a time. Elmer was astonished at the change in 
her. He remembered the pert, forward little minx of their 
school days, and here she was retiring to an almost painful 
degree. The transformation was as complete as the 
metamorphosis in Myrtle, only it was somewhat different. 
Whereas Myrtle had grown from a shy, sensitive little maid 
into a calm, well-poised, self-possessed young woman, Rosie 
had developed backward as it were, passing with maturing 
years into that state out of which Myrtle had emerged. But 
the change sat well upon each. Elmer could not imagine 
Myrtle other than she was, and the smallest touch of pert- 
ness in Rosie would have ruined her forever in his eyes. 

Her hair was so very black as to be almost blue, and 
arranged in a thousand cunning little waves and curls and 
ringlets around her pretty face. Her little nose was so cun- 
ningly wrought, her mouth so adorable in shape, her cheeks 
so exquisitely rounded; she had such a lovable little chin, 
such modest dark eyes, and such a glowing rosy color that 
Elmer never wearied of admiring these manifold charms, 
singly and collectively. Rosie still continued bravely at 


82 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Murly's, and, far from being ashamed of her position, she 
was proud of being one of the toilers ; so she told Elmer, 
when he questioned her, tossing her little head defiantly. 
Her independence amused him greatly; he was charmed 
with her soft innocence and modesty. 

'‘Rosie,'’ said Mrs. Marblemore, taking the pretty little 
girl aside, when they were about to go, "you must not be- 
lieve all the pretty speeches a young man makes to you." 

Rosie looked up at her but did not reply. 

"Do not let Elmer turn your head, I mean," continued 
the banker’s lady. 

Then Rosie looked down, blushing and almost ready to 
cry. "Do not misunderstand me, dear little Rosie," said 
Mrs. Marblemore, quickly, "I would be very, very proud 
and happy to have such a sweet, good little daughter, but — 
but — but — Rosie, Elmer is not to be trusted. He is not, 
Rosie !" 

Rosie reared her little head proudly and looked the 
elder lady full in the face. 

"Thank you," she said, and turned away. 

. Turned away coldly and proudly ! Oh, foolish, fool- 
ish little Rosie ! Do not turn so scornfully from her who 
means so well. Virtuous pride is a fine thing, a noble thing, 
but virtuous pride has been brought low ere now. But she 
heeds us not ; she does not hear. He stands awaiting her at 
the door, handsome, smiling, a blue-eyed god, and she goes 
to him and places her little hand lightly upon his arm, and 
they go away together. 

The street is brilliantly illuminated in spots, with wide 
stretches of deep shadow between, along which the mansions 
they pass look like ghostly habitations devoid of substance 
and reality. He can hardly feel the pressure of the little 
hand upon his arm. What if he places his warm palm upon 
it to assure himself of its presence ? Surely there is no harm 
in that ! What, if in the very deepest shadow he bends down 
and kisses the dear fluttering little hand? Surely, surely 
there can be no wrong in a caress so slight, so respectful. 
But yes, Rosie is sure that it is not right. 

"Please don't Mr. Marblemore," said Rosie, striving to 
withdraw her hand. 


IN THE EVENING. 83 

‘'Mr. Marblemore, Rosie!'’ cried Elmer, reproachfully. 
“Why not Elmer?” 

“It wouldn’t be proper,” said Rosie, shaking her pretty 
head. 

“You used to call me so, Rosie.” 

“But that was ever so long ago.” 

“If you call me Mr. Marblemore again I shall be very 
angry,” said Elmer. 

Rosie remained silent. She relinquished her hand to 
him, however, and again he bent down and kissed it ever so 
softly. She tried to withdraw it again, but he held it firmly 
imprisoned, and continued to kiss it from time to time all 
the way home. She paused at the foot of the lawn in front 
of the little, white cottage. 

“Good night, little Rosie,” said Elmer, softly. 

“Good night,” Rosie replied, trying to run away, but 
he still held her hand, detaining her. 

“Say good night, Elmer,” he pleaded. “Please, Rosie.” 

“Good night — Elmer.” 

Then Rosie hurried up the walk and into the house, 
and Elmer, stroking his smooth chin thoughtfully, continued 
on down town. 

“Sherman,” said Myrtle, “you must be Clara’s escort 
home.” 

“Oh, Myrtle, I don’t want to,” said Sherman, like a 
little boy begging off a whipping. 

“She expects it of you. Mrs. Rosewood will go home 
with Mr. and Mrs. Marblemore, and Clara must have an 
escort home.” 

“Why can’t she go with the old folks?” said the boy, 
sulkily. 

“You must take her Sherman.” 

“I will if you will promise to wait up for me. I want 
to say good night.” 

“You can say it now,” said Myrtle, demurely. 

“I can, if you will let me off going home with Clara.” 

“No, no.” 

“Then you will wait up for me ?” 

Myrtle nodded, and Sherman, with a grimace, ap- 


84 


THE WATTERSONS. 


preached Clara, and with a tolerable good grace, asked to 
see her home. Of course ! Clara had intended nothing less. 
She clung to his arm very closely, and laughed up at him 
and chattered all the way home. 

''Won’t you come in, Sherman?” she asked, pausing at 
the foot of the grand stairway. 

"Thank you, no. Tm late enough now.” 

"All right, Sherman, only don’t be cross. You should 
never be cross with me.” 

"I don’t mean to be.” 

"But you are. You’re a big, cross giant, so you are. 
Do you remember, Sherman, the time you chased Elmer 
into the house?” 

"Yes, of course.” 

"And — and do you remember what I did afterwards?” 

"Why — er — yes,” replied Sherman, feeling very ill at 

ease. 

"I kissed you, Sherman,” said Clara, in a voice won- 
drously low and gentle. "You were so brave.” 

Sherman made an impatient movement, turning away 
from her towards the street, but her hand still clasped his 
arm, and with a gentle pressure she restrained him. 

"Don’t be cross, Sherman,” she said, beseechingly. 
"Look at me.” 

An electric light swinging at the juncture of two streets, 
at a short distance, shed an almost fierce light around, the 
outer edges of which reached them in fitful flashes through 
the swaying foliage of surrounding trees and shrubbery. 
Clara’s face shone strangely pale in the fitful light, and Sher- 
man, looking down at her bidding, was shocked to see tears 
trembling in her eyes. 

"What are you crying for, Clara?” he said, gently. "I 
wouldn’t cry.” 

"I didn’t mean for you to see it,” she said, turning away. 

"I must go now,” said Sherman, rather awkwardly. 
"Good night, Clara.” 

She still held his arm, clasped in her two hands, and 
with the word she slipped them down until she held his hand 
in both her own. 

"Look, Sherman,” she said, and before he realized what 

• 


IN THE EVENING. 85 

she was about, she had kissed his hand. ''Good night, dear 
Sherman.’' 

"What did you do that for?” asked Sherman, angrily, 
but she was gone. He heard the door closing softly as he 
stood there rubbing his hand, dazed and confounded by the 
girl’s action. Then turning away with a hearty curse on 
all forward damsels, he hastened homeward, and presented 
himself with quite a different expression of countenance to 
the young lady awaiting him there. Myrtle sat alone in 
the parlor with a book in her hand. She rose and came to 
meet him, smiling at his eager rapture upon beholding her. 

“Well, she didn’t eat you, I see,” she said, looking him 
over critically. 

"Don’t let’s talk about her. Myrtle,” he said, taking her 
hand with ardor, "come and sit down.” 

"No, sir; bed time. You must get some sleep, else how 
can you compose those sublime — ” 

"Please don’t laugh at me. Myrtle. I don’t care who 
laughs at me or my work, if only you don’t. Are they so 
very bad. Myrtle?” 

"No, they are really very good,” said Myrtle, seriously. 

"Do you think so. Myrtle?” cried the youngster eagerly. 

He was exceedingly proud of the two little essays which 
he had now come to write weekly for the editorial columns 
of the Chronicle. Mr. Watterson thought highly of them, 
the General, too, and Aunt Sadie absolutely gloried in her 
boy’s brilliant genius. Myrtle alone had hitherto failed to 
yield that admiration, that homage to his intellectual quali- 
ties which the conceited young fellow secretly considered his 
due. 

"Yes, they are very good indeed, Sherman,” she said 
now, "I am glad to see that with much of the General’s blunt 
style you have not adopted his old-fashioned methods. He is 
a dear, good old man, but logical reasoning is better than 
abuse, and you reason very clearly indeed. Now will that 
content you, sir?” 

"And that has been your opinion all along?” 

"Yes, all along.” 

"Then why. Myrtle, why do you laugh at me ?” 


86 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''I laugh at the matter of your editorials, Sherman, not 
at you. You have such wild theories, such whimsical ideas.” 

“But they are the only true ones,” said Sherman, with 
conviction. 

“No doubt they are, but so foreign to prosy everyday 
life. Why discourse on socialism, on the coming millenium, 
and things so far, so very far in the distance? There are 
problems enough around us, my ardent Sherman, wrongs 
and abuses enough to keep the pens of ten thousand editors 
busy. Good night now, Mr. Editor. I will keep Papa com- 
pany for a half hour or so ; do you stop with Aunt Sadie a 
little while. I know she is waiting impatiently for her dar- 
ling boy.” 

She gave him both her hands at parting, and Sherman, 
kneeling as to a saint, kissed them softly. This love so 
humble and adoring, this chivalrous homage was inexpress- 
ibly sweet to Myrtle. She allowed her hands to linger in 
his for a moment, and ere withdrawing them answered his 
ardent embrace with a soft clinging pressure that trans- 
ported her lover into the seventh heaven of delight. 

Mr. Watterson was sitting at his desk, still turning and 
returning the newspapers when Myrtle joined him. Seating 
herself on the broad arm of his chair she put her arms 
around his neck, and for a time sat in pensive silence, run- 
ning her fingers through his curly mane. 

“What is it. Myrtle?” asked Mr. Watterson, presently 
capturing one of the little hands and placing it in his own 
large palm, the better to admire its contrasting smallness. 

“IVe been thinking. Papa,” replied Myrtle. 

“Of what?” 

“Oh, of many things. Are you glad to have me at home 
once more Papa?” 

“Ah, my love !” 

“Really glad?” continued the girl, shaking him play- 
fully. 

“Papa, who filled my room with flowers — such beautiful 
flowers?” 

“Don’t you know? Can’t you guess?” cried Mr. Wat- 
terson, chuckling. 

“Was it Sherman?” asked Myrtle, blushing. 


IN THE EVENING. 


87 


“Ha, ha ! The poor lad has been nearly beside himself 
for a month past. Now that you are here it is to be hoped 
that he will regain his senses.’’ 

''Dear Sherman,” murmured the girl, and continued 
pensively smoothing back her sire’s silvering locks. 

"Of whom are you thinking, my love?” asked the big 
man, gently. 

"Of Richard, Papa,” she replied with tears in her eyes. 
"Of Richard who loved me so dearly. Was it not hard. 
Papa? To die so young! And his poor mother — ” 

"Hush, Myrtle, 1 would not let my mind dwell upon 
the past, my love.” 

"Sometimes I cannot help it.” 

"I know — I know, but — better go to bed now, my love. 
It’s very late.” 

"So it is. Papa,” replied Myrtle, and drying her eyes ; 
she embraced him once more, smiling into his kind eyes with 
deep affection. 


CHAPTER VII. 


IN WHICH MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. 

Myrtle had fitted up a corner of the library for a study. 
It was simply furnished, with a few plain chairs for visitors, 
and an enormous desk for her own use. A number of 
shelves, arranged around the walls, contained her books to 
the number of several hundred volumes. The greatest diffi- 
culty which Myrtle encountered in endeavoring to keep her 
study rigidly bare and business-like was the persistent in- 
vasion of Aunt Sadie’s bric-a-brac. That good lady could 
not understand the girl’s aversion to her pretty ornaments. 
She sought in many ways to introduce her treasures into 
the forbidden chamber, but for a long time without success. 
Myrtle carried her bits of statuary away, deposited her 
gilded clocks upon the library table, and her vases in the 
halls, laughing at her dear aunt’s perseverance, but very 
stern and determined nevertheless. 

‘Tt is very unkind of you. Myrtle,” said Aunt Sadie, 
coming in one morning, her arms laden with statuary, ''to 
refuse to keep my pretty things. I really don’t know where 
to place them all ; and this room does look so ugly without 
them.” 

"But they distract my attention from my work. Auntie.” 

"I’m sure I don’t see why you want to work,” said 
Aunt Sadie, depositing her treasures on a convenient chair 
and sitting down on another. "It’s all well enough to corre- 
spond with friends, and to keep housekeeping accounts, but 
why you should write for the newspapers and the like, I 
can’t see.” 

"Can’t you. Auntie?” 

"I don’t see what you want to make all this fuss about 
woman’s suffrage for,” continued Aunt Sadie, plaintively. 
"I’m sure I don’t want to vote.” 

"But I do,” declared Myrtle, nodding. "And why 
shouldn’t you vote. Auntie? Don’t you pay taxes? Aren’t 
you intelligent enough?” 


IN WHICH MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. 89 

‘“I suppose so/’ said Aunt Sadie, very doubtfully, how- 
ever, '‘but why should women trouble their heads about such 
things when the men can attend to them so well? Surely 
we have many more important things to do. Men, poor 
creatures, must have some amusement, musn’t they? I 
think it a shame that women should seek to enter a field 
where the men are acquitting themselves so creditably. What 
would you think of a woman, mistress of her own house, 
sweeping the floors, scouring the dishes, cleaning the win- 
dows and performing like menial work which belongs of 
right to her servants ? Pooh ! pooh ! my dear ! Let the men 
govern, I say, and let us govern the men. Men are our 
servants, my dear, placed here to protect us, to guard and to 
shield us from all dangers. They are given strength of 
mind and muscle that they may provide for us while we 
carry on Nature’s great work. Why should you mingle in 
it? Why should you write about such things and stir up 
such a fuss? I’m sure Pm very proud of you, and so is 
Winfield, oh, so proud, and my boy loves you dearly, dearly ! 
And why can’t you be content with all this? Oh, Myrtle, 
don’t you love my boy?” she continued, clasping her hands 
and gazing at Myrtle with large, inquiring eyes. "Do you 
love my boy, darling? And will you marry him, Myrtle?” 

"I’ll not tell. Auntie,” said Myrtle, smiling roguishly. 
"I’ll not say, but I’ll tell you. Auntie, what I require in a 
lover — in a husband, if you wish.” 

"Do so, darling,” said Aunt Sadie, settling herself in 
expectant delight. 

"He must be brave, Auntie, and as modest as brave, for 
a woman may be modest and a savage brave, but in him both 
qualities must be equally united, so that the one may round 
out the other, and ennoble him who possesses them. He 
must be strong. Auntie, but gentle, too, else he shall not 
have me, for strength is a negative virtue when unaccom- 
panied by gentleness, and gentleness without strength is 
unbecoming a man and my husband. Self-reliant he must 
be at all times ; humble in my presence, but proud in the face 
of the world; modest in all things save in love, but in that 
boundless. Impulsive he may be, impetuous even — aye, 
headstrong — I do not care if he be only governed at bottom 


90 


THE WATTERSONS. 


by sound sense. He must be intellectually my equal, Auntie, 
neither above nor below me, so that I may neither stand in 
awe of him nor despise him. He must be pure. Auntie, and 
come to me as he would have me come to him. And finally 
he must love his country and believe in God, else I cannot 
trust myself into his keeping. All this. Auntie, I shall de- 
mand of him who would be my husband !” 

She had risen, the better to confound her aunt, and now 
stood for a moment half-laughing, but with a serious look 
and a warning finger upraised; then courtesying low in an 
old-fashioned way affected by our grandmothers, she sank 
into her chair. 

''You love my boy, Myrtle,’’ said Aunt Sadie, with a 
bright smile. "You do. Myrtle, you do; for you have de- 
scribed him even now. Is not my boy brave, strong, gentle, 
modest — oh, so modest! Is not he brilliant of mind? Is 
not he pure, truthful, loving, and — and good, Myrtle ? And 
oh, is not he handsome, darling? You have said nothing 
about his looks. Myrtle?” 

"That, Auntie, is a last consideration.” 

"But you expect much, child, very, very much,” said 
Aunt Sadie, gravely. "And what have you to give in 
return ?” 

"Myself, Auntie — my dearest love and devotion.” 

"Well, but, darling, I do hope you will marry my boy.” 

"I forgot to say. Auntie,” said Myrtle, laughing, "that 
the first requisite — the very first — is that he must plead his 
own cause.” 

"Oh, but he will. Myrtle,” Aunt Sadie cried. "He 
does not know that I am pleading for him ; and I love him 
so much. Myrtle.” 

Myrtle came to her side and placed her arms around the 
dear lady’s neck, and pressed her cheek to hers. 

"Dearest Auntie,” she said very softly, "so do I. Only 
— only — he is such a boy — a dear, good boy as you say, 
brave, and strong, and gentle, and modest, but still a boy.” 

"He will be a man some day, my dear,” replied Aunt 
Sadie, nodding delightedly; "and such a man! Will you 
marry him then. Myrtle?” 

Myrtle kissed her gently by way of reply, then return- 


IN WHICH MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. 9I 

ing to her desk, she took up her pen with an air of great 
resolution. 

“You must not neglect your walk, my dear,” said Aunt 
Sadie, pausing at the door after stealthily placing her treas- 
ures in various artistic groups about the room. 

“No, Auntie, Sherman will call for me this evening.” 

Aunt Sadie smiled knowingly, and with a last loving 
glance at the girl who sat pen in hand, her brows knit in 
deep thought, she went away. 

Myrtle had at this time already won considerable repute 
as a writer of depth and power on various phases on the 
many-sided woman question. A year before her return from 
college her articles began to appear weekly in the columns 
of the Clarenceburg Chronicle, swelling by degrees from a 
half column in length to nearly half a page of serious dis- 
cussion of the home life, business life and college life of 
woman. She touched upon politics, judging men and 
measures with remarkable clearness of comprehension. She 
delved into woman’s past history, traced her progress and 
development, and by logical inference speculated on her 
future. She commented on the achievements of women of 
note ; kept track of the far-reaching movements toward com- 
plete emancipation among her sex ; but above and beyond 
all else, she persistently and energetically did battle for the 
ballot. The General printed the first half-dozen essays 
obscurely, perhaps a little ashamed of them, but they gradu- 
ally crept to the most conspicuous corner of the famous edi- 
torial page and became the Chronicle’s strongest feature. 
The young woman's name, signed in full, attracted wide- 
spread attention, especially when it became generally known 
that the writer was no less a personage than the daughter of 
the famous politician. Myrtle very shortly received a com- 
munication from the editor of a Springfield newspaper, 
requesting permission to publish her essays jointly with the 
Chronicle. It was followed by a letter from the Chicago 
Courier, a paper of enormous circulation, and lastly by an 
offer from a newspaper syndicate which brought her writ- 
ings at one fell swoop to the attention of the entire country. 

Myrtle was greatly astonished at the instant and pro- 
nounced success attending her first efforts, but she eagerly 


92 


THE WATTERSONS. 


seized upon these offers of a wider field for her endeavors, 
and continued the work so auspiciously begun with an ardor 
and enthusiasm worthy of the cause in which she labored. 
She was on the fair road to fame when she returned home 
to her proud father. She was an object of great admiration 
to her friends as a young woman of brilliant intellectual 
attainments, but regarded rather askance by all as one rid- 
den by a crotchet, a fad, a hobby which would, no doubt, 
wear away in time, but which was to be humored while it 
lasted. She was taken seriously by no one, she found ; not 
by the General, not by her father, not by Sherman even. 

''You're only a woman, my dear," the General would 
say in a tone of commiseration ; and so said every one. 

The General would, indeed, argue with her by the hour, 
delighting in the girl's glowing enthusiasm, but the dear old 
man retained throughout an air of amused contempt that 
awakened Myrtle's utmost indignation. Her father would 
listen to her eager arguments smilingly, nodding his grand 
head in invariable assent, treating her, in short, like a be- 
loved child or a superior kind of angel. As for Sherman — 
oh, he was but a boy, a hare-brained, addle-pated youth 
whose unripe opinions did not count, and whose faith in the 
justice of her cause was consequently rather irritating than 
otherwise. In a word, her views met with no sympathy 
among those for whose opinion she entertained a high 
regard, but her faith in the right and justice of her cause 
continued unshaken, and she applied herself the more, spend- 
ing hours of each day at her desk, studying and writing, re- 
solved to compel their serious consideration and their faith. 

The reward came in the form of appeals from editors 
of high-standing periodicals, earnestly requesting contribu- 
tions from her pen. She filled them all, rejoicing in the 
broader scope given to her powers, the wider sphere of her 
influence. She became known far and wide as the champion 
of the cause of woman, the ardent advocate of woman's 
suffrage. Letters came from all parts of the country, letters 
of praise and appreciation from earnest women striving in 
the same field; invitations, too, from woman clubs over the 
state, soliciting addresses on her favorite subject. Aunt 
Sadie threw up her hands in horror when Myrtle showed 


IN WHICH MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. 93 

her the first of these, and calmly announced her intention of 
accepting it. All this required time, of course. It was not 
accomplished in a single year, nor in two or three years ; 
but all things considered, her progress was astonishingly 
rapid. The impetus given to her rise by the famous name 
she bore was, no doubt, great, but to sustain this rise and 
continue to heights undreamed of even by the ardent girl, 
required more than ordinary brilliance of intellect and 
earnest efifort. 

As time passed, and her success became a certainty. 
Myrtle began to observe an alteration in the demeanor of 
those about her. People came to regard her with more 
than smiling curiosity — with a kind of awe. To see the 
General shaking his obstinate head, but silenced, to observe 
her dear father’s grave air of thought, to witness Sherman’s 
boundless admiration and Aunt Sadie’s unending astonish- 
ment — all this filled her heart with measureless joy and con- 
tent. She loved the cause, and was willing to devote her 
life to it — not the devotion of absolute surrender, of sterile 
self-sacrifice. No. Her life should not be barren of 
woman’s greatest happiness. She would, God willing, do a 
woman’s part in the world, love, marry, and bring forth 
children and rear them to glorious man and womanhood ; 
but her life-work would go on none the less. She was still 
young, however, and marriage was not to be thought of for 
years to come. 

Having a well-defined idea of the methods pursued by 
her father in establishing his political organization. Myrtle 
had conceived the plan of building a monster woman’s asso- 
ciation along the same lines, of forming the nucleus of the 
organization among her immediate friends in the city, and 
of allowing it to spread throughout the State and country. 
She had talked the matter over with her intimates, many of 
whom were willing to join her in forming a club for what- 
ever earnest purpose. She had arranged a preliminary 
meeting to take place at her home, and was now awaiting 
them in glorious anticipation. Franklin had placed a long 
table in the library with chairs around it to the number of 
a dozen. 

Clara was the first to arrive, clad in the dress she 


94 


THE WATTERSONS. 


affected, a dark-colored skirt reaching barely to her ankles, 
and a white shirt-waist, whose abbreviated sleeves showed 
a fine pair of strong, round arms as brown as a berry from 
constant exposure to the sun. Her full, handsome throat, 
too, was free and unconfined by collar or ribbon, having 
merely a loose ruffle of lace around it. She looked remark- 
ably cool and comfortable. Then came Rosie, the meeting 
having been arranged by her thoughtful friend with an eye 
to the little maid’s half-holiday. She came in quietly, in a 
timid, subdued way she had, which Clara called hypocritical. 
Clara was herself so free from shyness that she could not 
understand the feeling in others. Little Rosie looked very 
pretty in a pink and white sailor waist, with skirt to match. 
Her inky-black hair was crowned with a snowy cap in keep- 
ing with the breezy nautical suit. The little maid had most 
original and ingenious ideas in dress. There was always 
something novel, something quaint and fresh in Rosie’s 
attire; if it was but a flower or a ruffle, or a bit of ribbon, 
or lace oddly placed, it was sure to be pretty and tasteful. 
She never wore those floral piles on her pretty head which 
other young ladies aflfected, but was given to cunning little 
round hats of cloth variously colored, with wide or curling 
brims, and, perhaps, a single feather topping it. 

Myrtle welcomed her friends cordially. She could not 
resist Rosie’s pretty face, but bent down and kissed her as 
one kisses a sweet child, but Clara was not at all gracious 
to the little maid, having in mind, doubtless, Rosie’s humble 
position behind Murly’s counter. 

''You are looking very nice, Clara,” said Rosie, timidly. 

"Thank you,” said Clara, coldly. 

Rosie regarded her wistfully, wishing, perhaps, more 
ardently than ever before that Clara was more friendly. 
Time was when she would have welcomed a wordy battle 
with her old-time enemy, but her spunk had vanished with 
her pertness, and she felt herself kindly disposed towards 
all the world. 

"Who’s all coming. Myrtle?” asked Clara, for the 
twentieth time. "Oh, here is Grace Fairfield.” 

She was quickly followed by May Stauley, the Rochester 
sisters, the elder Miss Hammersmith, Fanny Rowland, and 


IN WHICH MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. 95 

four or five others. They came in laughing and chattering, 
and went dancing about the library and into the parlor and 
out again, filling the staid old house with the merry music 
of their laughter. They examined all of Aunt Sadie’s treas- 
ures, peeped into Mr. Watterson’s study, explored the 
kitchen and the cellar, and finally ran upstairs in a madcap 
frolic. Myrtle showed them her chamber, a cozily furnished 
room, with windows opening upon the lawn in front, and 
Aunt Sadie’s room just beside it, and even her father’s, 
though she permitted no one to enter that sacred apartment. 

“I want to see Sherman’s room,” cried Clara, gayly. 
This called forth a chorus of delighted ''Oh’s.” 

"Where is it. Myrtle ?” was the general cry. 

"I shall tell him,” cried Myrtle, laughing, "he shall 
know the names of all who dare to enter there.” 

She threw open the door with a flourish, saying 
"Behold!” 

A dozen mischievous girls crowded around the door- 
way, peeping in, giggling and nudging each other. Clara, 
bolder than her companions, stepped across the threshold, 
but when frightened a little at her own temerity, she would 
have retreated, she was pushed further in by the others 
crowding after her like sheep, giggling and crying out in 
reckless abandon. Once in they scattered everywhere, pok- 
ing their little noses into everything, examining all of Sher- 
man’s belongings with breathless curiosity. No doubt they 
one and all had brothers at home, and were tolerably familiar 
with the general appearance of a bachelor’s apartments, but 
visiting the innermost sanctum of a young gentleman, their 
famous friend, secretly as it were, and by stealth, savored 
very much of reckless adventure, and the various objects 
seen in this light possessed a peculiar interest and attraction. 
Myrtle remained standing in the doorway looking on and 
laughing. One or two of the more timid kept her company. 
Rosie was one, and Grace Fairfield another. Clara, too, 
remained standing near the door, looking around the room 
with a very soft and sweet expression of countenance. 

"Don’t touch anything, girls !” commanded Myrtle, 
sternly. 

"No, no ! The idea !” 


96 


THE WATTERSONS. 


But even while these indignant exclamations were float- 
ing in the air, little Fanny Rowland, the leader of this mis- 
chievous band, let fall a small rosewood box, which she had 
vainly tried to open. It crashed upon the carpet, and burst- 
ing open, a shower of trinkets scattered around. Fanny fled, 
laughing, while her companions hastily gathered up Sher- 
man’s treasures and restored them to the box, and the box 
to the drawer, whence Fanny had procured it. 

“Fanny, keep away from that closet,” cried Myrtle, but 
Fanny had already thrown wide the door, disclosing Sher- 
man’s wardrobe to the startled eyes of her companions. Half 
a dozen girls hurled themselves shrieking upon the door, 
closing it. 

“Come, now, girls. Let’s go down-stairs,” said Myrtle, 
coaxingly. They paid no heed to her, and the fun went on. 
They brushed their hair with Sherman’s brushes; rubbed 
their rosy cheeks on Sherman’s towels ; adorned themselves 
with Sherman’s jewels, and prinked before Sherman’s mir- 
rors. They inscribed their names in his books, and rum- 
maged through every accessible drawer. They explored 
every nook and corner, but it remained for madcap Fanny 
to make the grandest discovery of all. Drawing aside a pair 
of lofty curtains, she peeped behind them, and cried: “Oh, 
girls !” in a tone of voice which brought them on the run. 
Fanny held the curtains firmly together, the while they over- 
whelmed her with eager questions. Then with a little shriek 
she threw them open, disclosing — Sherman’s bed ! * 

One startled glance they cast upon this appalling object, 
then turning tail they fled, shrieking with laughter, from 
the room, and down-stairs, pausing not once until they 
arrived flushed and panting in the library. Once there 
Myrtle locked the door, and commanding silence, bade them 
gather around the table and prepare for the business of the 
day. 

“Girls,” said Myrtle, “I have explained to each of you 
my reasons for calling you together ; but will briefly go over 
them again in order that any obscure point may be cleared 
up. It is my aim to form an association of women whose 
object will be to study and discuss the many grave problems 
confronting the women of this generation, but which will 


IN WHICH MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. 97 

first and foremost devote its energies to the study and ad- 
vancement of woman’s sufiFrage. It is possible that you have 
hitherto given no thought to this grave question, and that 
after looking into it with me, it may not appeal to you, but 
on the contrary, make you adverse to taking up or continuing 
in the work. A prejudice exists in the minds of many 
worthy people against woman’s suffrage, which is as absurd 
as it is far-fetched and reasonless. They declare that the 
woman who believes in and advocates it has lost that femi- 
ninity so dear to all women ; that she is masculine, freakish, 
unwomanly, and from fear of this kind of censure, or from 
an honest conviction against it, some of you may not care 
to identify yourselves with the movement I hope to inaugu- 
rate. Now, I do not think — I am very sure, indeed, that 
there is nothing wrong, nothing unwomanly, in demanding 
the suffrage, nothing masculine in our desire to study the 
problems underlying the social and industrial life of woman, 
but I want each one who joins with me in this movement to 
be perfectly open and fearless in expressing the views which • 
she may be led to entertain, after having given it some study, 
and also to consider herself free to withdraw at any time. I 
would like to convert you all to my way of thinking, but if 
I cannot do so, I hope that our differences of opinion will not 
alienate our friendship nor the respect we owe and entertain 
toward each other.’’ 

Myrtle paused and looked around at the two rows of 
pretty faces turned towards her, all expressing bright intelli- 
gence and a lively curiosity of what was to follow this por- 
tentous introduction. 

''There are certain rules which I have written out,” she 
continued, "to the observance of which every member of our 
club must pledge herself. I shall not read them now, but I 
shall give each of you a copy, which I hope you will study 
fully when at leisure. I should like, however, to call your 
attention to the first rule laid down here, and that is : 'We 
pledge ourselves never to discuss the faults, the sins, the 
shortcomings of each other, nor of our friends and neigh- 
bors.’ Do you understand, girls?” continued Myrtle, very 
gravely. "If this rule is strictly adhered to, the others will be 
easy to keep. Gossiping engenders bitter feeling and dis- 


98 


THE WATTERSONS. 


trust, which, by destroying all good feeling, destroys all 
possibility of our working intelligently and harmoniously 
together; and to gain results, harmony and accord is abso- 
lutely necessary. We must trust each other fully, and assist 
each other in our work.'’ 

There ensued a moment of silence. Myrtle waited very 
anxiously for some one to speak. It was most material to 
her plans that this should be fully understood and agreed to, 
and she felt grateful to Clara, who was the first to break the 
silence. 

‘'You are quite right. Myrtle," said Clara, nodding her 
head, gravely. 

“Myrtle is always right," said Rosie, in her soft voice. 

“May I ask," said Fanny Rowland, demurely, “what we 
are to talk about?" 

This called forth a general shriek of laughter, in which 
Myrtle gayly joined. 

“Surely, Fanny," she said, “there are many interesting 
' topics to converse upon. Our own doings, the virtues of our 
friends, our dresses, our papas, and — well, our lovers." 

“Oh, dear," said Fanny, “I haven’t got my lover yet." 

“Well," said Myrtle, smiling, “you surely will have some 
day. But, indeed, girls, this is a very, very serious matter. 
Harmony is the secret of the success of every kind of union, 
and harmony cannot prevail where distrust and ill-feeling 
exists. Men are successful in their organizations. They do 
not talk about each other — at least not bitterly. I hope that 
the club which we are now forming may spread in time over 
the entire State and country; that women, inspired by our 
example, may band together and work together for our com- 
plete and triumphant emancipation, and for the right to 
work, not against, but side by side with, our brothers, for 
their interests and our own. The finger of scorn will be 
pointed at us ; we will be laughed at ; our work will be de- 
rided, but we will persevere. Being ignorant, we may be 
happy, not because of what we have, but because we do not 
know what we lack, but being enlightened we see so much 
that of right belongs to us, which is wrongfully or illegally 
withheld from us, that contentment is impossible. True 
happiness can only be based on equal right. The whole 


IN WHICPI MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. 


99 


thing resolves itself into one little question — shall we, as 
intelligent, reasoning women, rest content in our present 
sphere with the contentment of an ignorant child or of an 
idiot? Or shall we, with a discontent wholly natural, strive 
to gain the rights so long denied us through blind ignorance 
or unreasoning prejudice and tyranny? But, pardon me, 
I do not mean to go into the matter at this meeting.’’ 

“Go on. Myrtle,” said Fanny. 

Myrtle glanced at the others. Several faces reflected 
Fanny’s interest, and these she carefully noted ; others ap- 
peared engrossed in their own thoughts, and two or three 
looked decidedly bored. 

“No, Fanny,” she said, smiling. “I wished merely to 
prepare today for the future. Papa has given us permission 
to use the library until such time as we shall feel confidence 
enough in our venture to engage -a regular meeting place 
down town.” 

“Oh, Myrtle,” cried Clara, “we can do that, now. Fm 
sure that my papa will give me enough money to get a hall.” 

“No, no, Clara,” said Myrtle, looking rather uneasily 
at the frowning glances cast at Clara by less fortunate 
daughters. “When we have advanced so far I will go to 
papa, to Mr. Marblemore, to Mr. Rowland, and to all our 
dear parents, and each shall contribute according to his 
means and inclination.” 

“But you will let me take charge of the gymnasium?” 
said Clara. “Indeed, indeed you must, girls. I understand 
all about athletics.” 

“Do we really require a gymnasium ?” asked Myrtle, 
doubtfully. 

“Goodness, gracious me, yes !” cried Clara, aghast. 
“Don’t you like athletics. Myrtle?” 

“I’m ashamed to confess it,” said Myrtle, smiling, “but 
I don’t.” 

“Oh, we must have a gymnasium.” 

“Let’s put it to a vote,” cried Myrtle, gayly. “All in 
favor of a gymnasium will signify by saying 'Aye.’ ” 

A great chorus of “Ayes” answered her. 

“All not in favor say -Nay.’ ” 

“Nay,” piped a single voice — that of Grace Fairfield, a 


LCfC. 


lOO 


THE WATTERSONS. 


frail young woman — of all present standing most in need of 
physical culture. Rosie, to tell the truth, would have liked 
to join with her, but she did not care to oppose Clara. 

''We seem to be decidedly in the minority, Grace,” said 
Myrtle, joining in the laugh that greeted poor Grace’s lonely 
stand. "Well, they shall have their gymnasium, but we two 
shall stay sternly away from it.” 

"What’s our name to be. Myrtle?” cried Fanny. 

"We must vote upon it. Each suggest a name suitable 
to the purpose of our association. Personally, I favor call- 
ing it 'The Woman’s Progressive Union.’ ” 

"I say 'The Clarenceburg Girls’ Athletic Club,’ ” said 
Clara. 

"But it isn’t to be an athletic club,” cried Myrtle, frown- 
ing. "Nor, let us hope, is it to be confined to Clarenceburg, 
nor to girls merely. Athletics are to play a very small part 
in it. It is formed for the purpose of discussing subjects of 
interest to woman, but primarily to teach and spread the 
doctrine of woman’s sufifrage.” 

"How would 'Free Women of America’ do?” asked 
Fanny. 

They all had their say, and some of the names sug- 
gested occasioned much merry laughter. But in the end 
they agreed upon Myrtle’s choice, and the newly formed club 
was christened "The Woman’s Progressive Union.” 

"Now we must elect officers,” said Myrtle, "the Presi- 
dent first.” 

"Oh, you shall be President, of course,” said Fanny. 

"Of course,” chorused the others. 

"Not necessarily,” said Myrtle, coloring with pleasure 
however. "I constituted myself chairman of this meeting 
because it was so informal, but it does not necessarily follow 
that I must be President of the permanent organization. 
Though,” she added, "I should like to be.” 

"Well, all I’ve got to say,” said Fanny, firmly, "is that 
unless Myrtle is chosen President I won’t join.” 

"Now, that isn't nice, Fanny,” said Myrtle, reproach- 
fully. 

"I don’t care,” declared Fanny, stoutly, "I mean it.” 

"Would anyone like to try for the place?” said Myrtle, 


IN WHICH MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. lOI 

looking around, but directing her glance more especially 
at Clara. 

‘'Not I, thank you,'' replied Clara, good-naturedly. 

“Let's vote on^^," cried Fanny. “I think voting is just 
lovely. I make a ^motion that Miss Myrtle Watterson be 
unanimously elected President of ‘The Woman’s Progressive 
Union.' " 

The motion was carried with a storm of applause, and 
Myrtle thanked them very kindly. Then followed a contest 
for the post of Vice-President. Miss Hammersmith won the 
honor, Fanny sweetly resigning her claim in that young 
lady's favor. Grace Fairfield was chosen Secretary. Clara 
became Treasurer, and the other offices were distributed to 
the satisfaction of all. 

“Now, girls, let us begin right," said Myrtle, “let us 
resolve to work hand in hand for the prosperity of our Union 
and the success of the cause for which it is formed. We will 
be warm friends and loving companions, recognizing no 
social status among ourselves, save that of absolute equality, 
all working in a common cause for the common good. We 
will have no laws of exclusion, all earnest women of ordinary 
intelligence, whether married or single, are welcome. I 
expect each of you to interest a friend or two in this move- 
ment and to bring as many as possible to join hands with us. 
And now," added Myrtle, rising in conclusion, “please con- 
sider yourselves my guests." 

She unlocked the door and rang for Franklin, who 
appeared promptly, and began arrangements for serving 
refreshments in the library. Aunt Sadie came in from her 
rounds in the midst of the banquet, and she was at once sur- 
rounded by a bevy of bright-eyed girls, and pressed to join 
them. She sat down among them, but laughingly declined 
to touch food. 

“It is not good to eat at irregular intervals," she said, 
sagely, “it overtaxes the stomach, and when the stomach is 
persistently overtaxed it becomes weakened and the entire 
system becomes, in consequence, debilitated. Not a morsel 
of food should pass your lips between regular meals, because 
the smallest morsel entering the stomach, sets the gastric 
juices flowing, and if they are kept in constant flow their 


102 


THE WATTERSONS. 


powers soon become exhausted. The stomach, my dears, the 
stomach !” concluded Aunt Sadie, as usual shaking her head 
very gravely. 

'T haven’t any stomach. Aunt Sad^^” cried Fanny. 

‘'Oh, yes, you have, child,” said Aunt Sadie, who con- 
sidered the subject entirely too serious to jest upon. 

"Then,” said Fanny, sending her pearly teeth through 
a huge piece of frosted cake, "I defy it.” 

Aunt Sadie laughed with the others, glancing very 
kindly at the mischievous little woman whose clear, bright 
eyes and rosy cheeks proclaimed her stomach her humble 
slave and minister. 

"Papa,” said Myrtle that evening, when they were alone 
together in the study, "I have made a beginning.” 

"Have you, indeed, my love?” he replied, smiling down 
at her as she sat on a footstool at his knee. 

"I mean to work hard. Papa, and get as many members 
and converts as possible. I know you do not believe in it. 
Papa, and I promise never to ask you to advocate a cause 
which you cannot conscientiously espouse. Do you not think 
it possible that the little seed which I planted today may 
grow and spread as yours did?” 

Mr. Watterson shook his head. 

"Why, Papa?” 

"It may. Myrtle. Women are much better than men, 
much purer in mind and heart, but the seed my dear that 
you planted has nothing in common with mine. The politi- 
cal organization I founded spread only, and remained intact, 
because to keep it so was to the interest of its leading mem- 
bers. Self-interest, my dear — self-interest rules the world. 
My associates knew that political success was more than 
possible — an absolute certainty with organization, and as 
political success meant personal reward, they assisted at the 
growth of the organization and remained faithful to it 
through the years. Do you not see the difference, my dear? 
You have no reward to hold out to your followers for faith- 
ful and earnest effort. I am afraid that the movement you 
inaugurated today will not extend beyond this city — hardly 
beyond your immediate circle of friends, who will join you 
out of personal love. I do not say this to discourage you, 


IN WHICH MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. IO3 

Myrtle, only to warn you not to be too sanguine of far-reach- 
ing results.’' 

Myrtle sat silent and depressed. She felt the truth 
of her father’s arguments, and wondered why they had 
never occurred to her before. Self-interest was surely at 
the bottom of all successful enterprise. 

‘'Do not give up, darling,” said her father, tenderly. 
“All earnest effort, however discouraging, however hope- 
less, is noble and ennobling. What I have told you just now 
was a disagreeable truth and a task imposed upon me by 
the overconfidence you displayed. I could not bear to wit- 
ness your disappointment after failure. Now you will be 
prepared for the possibility of failure at least, and you know 
what you have to contend with. If all your associates were 
as earnest as you, my daughter, if all women were as intelli- 
gent, success would be a foregone conclusion. But they are 
not. They are inspired by purer ideals, by nobler motives 
than those that animate their brothers, but they are not as 
strong intellectually, or, at least, their intellectual endeavors 
are directed into entirely different channels from those into 
which you wish to direct them. But work on, my dear. You 
are making a name for yourself, and that must certainly lend 
the movement some impetus. You must enlist the atten- 
tion of earnest, purposeful women everywhere. But have 
you thought of everything, sweetheart? Have you reflected 
that even the smallest success means personal criticism? 
You will be called strong-minded, unwomanly, mannish. It 
is the penalty we pay for successful climbing, my daughter. 
Have you thought of all that, darling?” 

“Yes, Papa,” said Myrtle, coloring deeply. 

“You are very sensitive. Myrtle.” 

“I wouldn’t mind anything. Papa, if only they don’t call 
me unwomanly,” said Myrtle, clasping her hands in a way 
she had when deeply moved. Then she laughed. “Why, 
should I mind that ? It wouldn’t be true, because they said 
it, would it. Papa? Oh, dear, I wouldn’t mind being called 
mannish. Papa, because that would be absurd, nor freakish 
because that would be ridiculous, but unwomanly. Papa ! 
The word means so much.” 


104 


THE WATTERSONS. 


'‘Better give it up, dear,” her father said, raising his 
eyebrows. 

"No, never!” 

"Even if you are called unwomanly?” 

"Yes, Papa — I wouldn't mind — that is after a while. 
And besides you will know better and — and — so will — Sher- 
man,” this last in a very faint voice, indeed. 

"Listen, dear,” said Mr. Watterson, bending down and 
kissing her flushed cheeks, "I want to tell you that I believe 
you are fighting for the right.” 

"Oh, you dear sweet, darling, love of a Papa !” cried 
Myrtle, springing up in a rapture of joy. "Do you really 
and truly believe in the truth and justice of my cause?” 

"Yes, I do believe that all you ask is your right, but 
believing it I would not put out my hand to give it to you.” 

"But why. Papa? Why? Why? Why?” 

"Because I believe that it would lower women in the 
eyes of men. I believe that women are intended for a far 
higher, nobler, purer sphere of usefulness.” 

"But dear, sweet, darling Papa,” cried Myrtle, ex- 
citedly, "don’t you see it is our right?” 

"I do not deny it. Myrtle. I expressly state that when 
you come to speak of your right in the matter it certainly 
is your right, but it would lower you to the level of men to 
have that right. And that, in my opinion, is the way a 
majority of men regard the matter.” 

"Papa, if you saw me — me, your daughter — whom you 
know and love — if you saw me going into the polls to vote, 
would you consider me unwomanly. Would it lower me in 
your eyes?” 

"No, no; of course not.” 

"If you saw me in legislative halls. Papa, championing 
the cause of working girls, of homeless children, of the aged 
and destitute, would it lower me in your eyes?” 

"What a question. Myrtle ; certainly not !” 

"Tell me. Papa, if you saw Aunt Sadie, your mother, 
and — pardon me, dear Papa, my mama, doing the like, would 
they appear less womanly, less pure, less lovable in your 
eyes ?” 

"No, Myrtle; on the contrary.” 


IN WHICH MYRTLE CALLS A MEETING. IO5 

''Then you see, Papa,” cried Myrtle, clapping her hands, 
all rosy with triumphant glee. 

"But — but — but — ” 

"Oh, Papa,” cried Myrtle, covering his mouth with her 
rosy fingers, "youVe acknowledged it and you can’t recede. 
You were speaking of woman in the abstract, you would say, 
and not of those near and dear to you ; but. Papa, don’t you 
see, your regard for woman in the abstract is merely a reflec- 
tion of the regard which you entertain for us. And so it is 
with other men. We women, dear Papa, are not the angels 
you think us ; we are poor, weak, everyday mortals like your- 
self. We have ideals which we wish to see carried out. We 
see evils around us in which women and children are the 
peculiar sufiPerers and which therefore appeal peculiarly to 
us who can understand them, but we cannot remedy their 
wrongs because the means to do so are withheld from us. 
The ballot. Papa, is the sole and only helpful lever of modern 
life. In private life women have their allotted tasks and so 
have men, but believe me. Papa, there is work in public life 
that may be divided in the same way. There is injustice 
towards women in many of our laws which have come down 
to us from feudal times, and which we cannot remedy be- 
cause the ballot is denied us. In eight of our States a woman 
has no right to her own property after marriage. Is that 
right, Papa? Is it just? In sixteen states a wife has no 
legal right to her own earnings. Is not that monstrous ? In 
thirty-eight states a mother has no legal right to her own 
children — the babies she bore. Papa, in anguish and in sufifer- 
ing, and reared at untold sacrifice through the years of help- 
less infancy. Oh, my. Papa, what do you call that ? I know 
of no word to characterize such a law. In some states there 
is no law compelling a man to support his own family, and 
yet that same man has under the law the right to take his 
wife’s earnings and squander them in drink. Oh, Papa, I 
am so miserable !” And the earnest, tender-hearted girl laid 
her head on her father’s shoulder and burst into a passion of 
tears. 

"Do not take it so to heart, darling,” said her father, 
anxiously, "you must not grieve over it so.” 

"But I cannot help it. Papa,” sobbed Myrtle. 


io6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''It will all come right, dear/' 

"No doubt, but, oh, when? There now, Fm done," she 
added, smiling through her tears, "I know it's foolish. Papa, 
but I can’t help it. I often lay awake nights crying when I 
think of all the good we could do if the one little boon we 
crave were not denied us. I believe that many of our oppo- 
nents oppose us from honest conviction, believing sincerely 
that the possession of the ballot would tend to lower woman ; 
but they are mistaken. Papa, and I for one am most im- 
patient of being treated like a child, or an idiot, under guise 
of being looked up to as an angel. But there, forgive me. 
Papa," she concluded, hugging him soundly. "I ought to be 
punished in some way for presuming to raise my voice in 
your dear presence. It is a sin to dispute with one's own 
loving father. I will never do it again." 

"But I want you to tell me of your progress. Myrtle," 
said Mr. Watterson, smiling. "Perhaps in the work of 
organizing I can be of some assistance to you, and — and — I 
will look deeper into the matter." 

He was, in fact, of very great assistance to Myrtle in 
the work of organizing and firmly establishing the club. He 
labored with great patience and industry, until his 
daughter’s favorite project was fairly launched. With a 
handsome meeting hall down town, having a gymnasium 
and reading room attached, the membership of the newly 
formed organization grew, spreading with giant strides 
among the younger progressive element in the city. In 
viewing its prosperous beginning. Myrtle's hopes for the 
success of her entire gigantic plan rose to the point of abso- 
lute certainty. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


IN WHICH THE REV. MORTIMER RINGROSE MAKES A CALL. 

Mrs. Marblemore, with Elmer and Clara by her side, 
was sitting in a small drawing room one afternoon early in 
July. Clara was chattering away with much animation, 
relating various amusing incidents of college life, to which 
her stepmother listened with an air of smiling interest; but 
which seemed to irritate Elmer extremely. That young 
gentleman was very restless. He wandered about the room, 
dropping now into this chair, now into that, only to bound 
up again after a moody moment, and continue his restless 
movements. He wore a sullen expression of countenance 
and cast many impatient glances at the robust, smiling young 
woman. 

“Oh, shut up that infernal chatter, will you?” he sud- 
denly exclaimed. “Good Lord, don’t you know anything 
to talk about except that crazy college?” 

Clara flushed angrily, but said no word in reply. She 
cast one quick glance in his direction, a glance of unutterable 
loathing, and turned away in silent contempt. 

“Elmer!” cried Mrs. Marblemore, greatly shocked by 
this exhibition of ill-manners. “How can you be so very 
rude ?” 

“Oh, well !” exclaimed Elmer, manifestly surprised and 
shamed by Clara’s unexpected forbearance. “I beg Clara’s 
pardon.” 

“It is not at all necessary, sir,” replied Clara, icily. 

She rose, and with a word of excuse to Mrs. Marble- 
more, swept from the room. 

“Did you ever see such infernal pride !” cried the young 
man, gazing after her with an air of disgust and injury. 

“But you were very, very rude, Elmer,” said his mother 
in a gently chiding tone. 

“Oh, hang her, I hate her.” 

He rose, growling, and crossed the room, half-seating 


io8 


THE WATTERSONS. 


himself upon a small, round table, where he remained with 
one leg dangling, looking down at his mother, as she sat 
fluttering the leaves of a fashion magazine. 

'Tm afraid you are prejudiced against her, Elmer. She 
is a very kind and generous-hearted girl, and it is Daddy’s 
earnest wish, and mine, that you make friends with her.” 

‘'Yes, I know, you tell me so, often enough ; but a fellow 
can’t help being rude to her. Well, I’m going,’’ he added, 
bending down and kissing her. “Now, don’t you turn 
against me. Mama.” 

“You know I could never do that, darling,” said his 
mother, fondly, “but we cherish a very earnest wish with 
respect to you and Clara.” 

Elmer paused and looked at her questioningly, and in 
her smiling eyes, he read her meaning. He threw up his 
hands, with an expression of horror and disgust, so comical 
that Mrs. Marblemore was moved to laughter — a rare thing 
with her. 

With his going Mr. Marblemore came in, hat in hand. 
He had just awakened from his customary midday nap, and 
was on his way to business. 

“What, all alone, Mary,” he said, genially, “and looking 
over these queer pictures, I see.” He took up the magazine 
and fluttered the pages aimlessly. “Do you find it amusing, 
Mary, this kind of thing, selecting styles,' studying the 
fashions, planning dresses and the like?” 

“Sometimes, Andrew,” she replied listlessly. 

“And then the choosing of goods, the fitting and fash- 
ioning and all the rest of it — that is still more amusing, eh ?” 
said the smiling banker. “And that is the way women pass 
their lives ! Rather a useless sort of existence, don’t you 
think?” 

“It is not as noble, certainly, as making money,” re- 
plied Mary, with curling lip. 

“No, it is not,” said the banker, looking thoughtfully 
down at her. “No, it is not,” he repeated with more 
emphasis. “And that reminds me, I must be going.” 

She did not rise, but sat with downcast eyes. He bent 
and kissed her, then stood for a moment looking down at 
her, with an infinite pride and tenderness. 


THE REV. MORTIMER RINGROSE MAKES A CALL. IO9 

“You are very beautiful, Mary,'’ he said, slowly. She 
looked up at him in surprise, smiling a little. ''You are 
more beautiful now then when we married — let me see, it 
is now eleven years ago. Is it not wonderful how some 
women retain their beauty. It is all in the care one takes 
of one's self, I suppose?” 

"I suppose so,” she replied. 

"You are a strange woman, Mary,” he continued, set- 
tling himself at ease against the table, and looking down at 
her with his hands clasped before him and his hat dangling. 
"A very strange woman. I do not believe that in all these 
years you have said one impatient word to me. Not one. 
No, nor a loving one, Mary.” 

She colored deeply, looking up at him in surprise. 

'‘What a singular mood you are in, Andrew,” she said 
frowning. 

“Yes; I can't conceive what brought it on unless it was 
seeing you here so fresh and pretty. However, the fact 
remains that in all these years you have not spoken an affec- 
tionate word to me. Kind you have been always, and gen- 
tleness itself, but affectionate, never.” 

"I told you, Andrew, when I agreed to marry you,’' — 
she began in tones of deep agitation. 

"You told me,” he interrupted, composedly, "that you 
did not love me ; that you never could learn to love me. Yes, 
I remember, Mary. You were very candid and rather angry 
at my perseverance. How often did I propose to you, my 
dear? Twenty times? A hundred times? I don’t know, 
but I should certainly have continued my courtship until 
now if you had remained single. You told me that you did 
not love me, and my answer was that I was well content to 
take you as you were, trusting to win your regard in later 
days. . I ‘have never repented doing so, but I have often 
wondered, Mary, why you married me. It was not love, that 
was understood ; it was not wealth, nor position. You en- 
joyed both in a greater degree with the Wattersons than I 
could at that time give to you. And besides, it is my opin- 
ion that you care for neither. Then what was it ?” 

"You were very persevering, Andrew,” she replied, 
faintly, "and very pressing.” 


no 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Ah!” he said, nodding his great head, "was that it? 
Well, I have never repented the step. You have made me 
very happy, Mary. Nevertheless I must say you are a 
strange woman — a very strange, dear, lovable little wife.” 

He bent down, endeavoring to look into her eyes, but 
she avoided his gaze. 

"-Our children are grown now, Mary,” he continued, 
presently. 

"Yes, but they are bitter enemies still,” she replied. 

"I am very sorry for that,” he said in a tone of concern. 
"I had hoped that they would have forgotten their childish 
enmity long ago. If we could only bring them together my 
dear; they are in no way related, and a marriage between 
them would be a good thing all around. What is this?” 

A servant had entered bearing a card. Mrs. Marble- 
more took it up, and with her husband looking over her 
shoulder, read the name upon it, "Rev. Mortimer Ringrose.” 

"Ah, show him in,” said the banker, without awaiting 
his wife’s pleasure in the matter. His genial expression of 
countenance gave way in a moment to that stiff assumption 
of arrogant dignity which sat so ill upon him. He was a 
member of the church over which his reverence presided, a 
trustee and its most powerful pillar, and having contributed 
a large sum of money towards its erection he looked upon 
the sacred edifice as in some sort a Marblemore asset — non- 
negotiable, to be sure — but still a part of him and his belong- 
ings. And the Reverend Mortimer Ringrose, a large part 
of whose munificent salary he paid, stood on somewhat the 
same plane in his mind as that occupied by Ainsworth and 
Johnson. 

His reverence came in smiling and deferential, and 
advanced quickly towards the banker, who remained stiffly 
stationed beside his wife’s chair. Mrs. Marblemore, more 
courteous, rose and advanced a step or two to meet him, 
regarding him with the same expression of curiosity which 
she had worn at the church on the preceding Sunday. He 
shook hands with both. 

"Ah, Brother Marblemore,” said his reverence, "I am 
very glad to see you.” 


THE REV. MORTIMER RINGROSE MAKES A CALL. 


Ill 


Mr. Marblemore looked as if that were a matter of 
course, and remarked frostily that it was a fine day. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Ringrose, glancing through the win- 
dow, with renewed interest in the sunshine and clear blue 
sky, now that the wealthy banker had mentioned his ap- 
proval of them. “A beautiful day truly; let us thank God 
for it. I called,” continued his reverence, seating himself 
gracefully, and turning his fine eyes upon Mrs. Marblemore, 
who had now resumed her chair, “to solicit Sister Marble- 
more’s interest in a project I have formed for the purpose 
of raising a certain sum of money for missionary purposes.” 

He glanced deferentially at the banker and resumed, 
addressing himself directly to Mrs. Marblemore. 

“I have heard that you take an active interest in church 
work. Sister Marblemore,” he said, smilingly. 

“You have heard quite right,” interposed Mr. Marble- 
more. “Whenever there is money required — money,” he 
repeated, laying a peculiar emphasis on the word, “to carry 
on church work of any kind, you may confidently come to 
Mrs. Marblemore.” 

“Pardon me, Brother,” said his reverence, sweetly, “but 
I do not want money.” 

“Eh!” ejaculated the banker, staring, “you — do — not — 
want — money !” 

“Air. Ringrose, if I understand him aright merely seeks 
our approbation, and possibly our cooperation in a project 
he has formed,” said Mrs. Marblemore, raising her eyes to 
her husband’s face. 

“Ah, that’s it,” said the banker, rather vaguely, “and 
this project, what is it if I may ask?” 

“I have been thinking of an entertainment,” said his 
reverence, softly, “a simple and innocent charade, in which 
the members of the church may take part, and which may be 
given on the ground floor of the church. An admi.^ion fee 
will be charged and the proceeds will go to the missionary 
fund.” 

“I am not aware,” said Mr. Alarblemore, swelling pro- 
digiously, “that any such thing is necessary at oiir church.” 

“The generosity of the members is too well known to 
need any word from me,” murmured his reverence, “but — ” 


112 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''We are not accustomed to that sort of thing, sir,” said 
Mr. Marblemore, coldly. "Our pastor has but to make his 
requirements known to have them attended to.” 

"I know it, I am sure of it,” said Mr. Ringrose, casting 
an appealing glance at Mrs. Marblemore, who, looking up 
at the moment, caught the look, and on impulse answered 
by a little down-drawing of the corners of the mouth, ex- 
pressing comical despair; she bit her lips a moment later, 
but the sign was given, and she felt meanly conscious that 
there was a kind of secret understanding established between 
herself and this man. "I have reason to know that such is 
the case. Brother; but that is the one thing I want to do 
away with. It is not right. Brother Marblemore, it is very 
wrong and unjust that a few members of the church should 
bear the entire burden of such necessary contributions. They 
should be borne by all. I must tell you — it is my duty to 
tell you, dear Brother,” continued his reverence, in quite a 
glow, "that in your noble generosity you are not only unjust 
to yourself, but also to those of my flock who have not been 
burdened by God with the wealth which He in His infinite 
wisdom has placed into your keeping. Those who wish to 
contribute their little mite to so worthy a cause are deprived 
of the opportunity of doing so if you insist upon taking the 
entire burden upon yourself. Pardon me. Brother, for speak- 
ing so plainly,” said his reverence, demurely, "but it is not 
right, it is wrong and unjust.” 

"Perhaps you are right — er — Brother Ringrose,” said 
Mr. Marblemore, complacently. "No doubt you are right.” 

A slightly scornful smile curled the corner of Mrs. 
Marblemore’s mouth, but her eyes were fixed persistently 
upon the carpet. She could not look up without meeting 
the glance of the man sitting opposite her, and in his eyes 
there was ever a significance which filled her with uneasiness. 

"And so,” continued his reverence, "I thought of adopt- 
ing a plan which will permit everyone to contribute equally 
to the fund, and one that will at the same time bring our 
brothers and sisters together for an evening of social inter- 
course and amusement.” 

"I do not like it,” said Mr. Marblemore, shaking his 
head. "It is something we have never practiced.” 


THE REV. MORTIMER RINGROSE MAKES A CALL. II3 

‘^Old-fashioned notions have hitherto prevailed/’ said 
Mr. Ringrose, with another appealing glance at Mrs. Marble- 
more, which seemed to compel her own. “Everything 
changes — progresses — even the church.” 

“I consider the plan a good one,” said Mrs. Marblemore, 
glancing up just long enough to give her husband a flashing 
glimpse of the blue of her eyes. 

“Do you, indeed, Mary?” he replied. 

“I do.” 

“Well, I must be going,” said Mr. Marblemore, sud- 
denly. “You can talk it over between you, and we will settle 
it all at some future time.” 

“Permit me to thank you. Sister,” said Mr. Ringrose, 
when the banker had gone, “for your generous aid in 
endeavoring to overcome Brother Marblemore’s very pro- 
nounced opposition. His consent is absolutely necessary to 
me. I called today merely to solicit your interest with him. 
I was most fortunate in meeting him here, and still more 
fortunate in gaining your cooperation.” 

“It is nothing,” said Mrs. Marblemore, in a tone of 
constraint. 

“May I count upon your further assistance. Sister 
Marblemore?” said his reverence, gently. 

“I will do what I can.”. 

“I thank you. Perhaps you will even consent to take a 
part in it?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“It would be a great help to me,” said the minister, 
softly. His eyes had something magnetic in them. They 
compelled her glance and held it, and they sat for some 
seconds gazing into each other’s eyes. Mary slowly shook 
her head in dissent, her color momentarily deepening. 

“I have selected a sketch, a very pretty little piece, in- 
deed. It is a love story, with the conventional hero and 
villain, and with many minor characters. It will be com- 
paratively easy to fill them all if you will consent to take 
the principal role — that of the heroine. The part is a strong 
one and must be undertaken by a woman who has not only 
more than ordinary intelligence, but more than ordinary 


THE WATTERSONS. 


II4 

beauty and grace of person. And you— pardon me, Sister — 
you fill all these requirements admirably.'' 

Mrs. Marblemore smiled at this, smiled very brightly, 
with her eyes sparkling and her cheeks scarlet. Clearly she 
saw through his words, but their gross flattery was not dis- 
pleasing to her. 

role so important also requires youth," she said, 
demurely. 

‘^Certainly." 

''And I am no longer young." 

"A woman is no older than she looks," said his rever- 
ence, smiling. "Not only are you young enough. Sister, but 
your mind is more matured, and you are thus better able to 
comprehend and overcome the difficulties of the role than 
you would have been years ago." 

But still Mrs. Marblemore continued to shake her head. 

"You must. Sister," said his reverence. "Please promise 
me that you will think of it." 

"I will think of it," said she, slowly. 

"And I earnestly hope that you will decide in my 
favor," pursued Mr. Ringrose, smilingly. "I have an ad- 
mirable hero in mind. Pie is handsome in person, very ele- 
gant and graceful in bearing, and I should say more than 
ordinarily intelligent. You can guess whom I mean?" 

"Sherman Watterson, perhaps." 

"No, no; I mean Elmer Marblemore, whom I met for 
the first time last Sunday." 

"My son?" 

"If you had not declared it," said the gallant minister, 
"I should have said your brother. Would you not like to 
have him interpret the hero should you conclude to under- 
take the heroine's part?" 

"I should, indeed." 

"Then it will be for you to win him over. And would 
not this Sherman Watterson make an admirable villain? Pie 
is dark you know — the hue of the conventional villain." 

"I'm afraid he would not undertake the part. Pie is 
not a member of the church, and attends service only to 
please Aunt Sadie." 


THE REV. MORTIMER RINGROSE MAKES A CALL. II5 

''But if you used such influence as you possess with 
Sister Watterson — 

The door opened at this moment, and Aunt Sadie en- 
tered unannounced. 

"Oh, Mary, Tm so glad to have found you at home,'' 
she cried, so intent upon her friend that she did not see the 
minister until he came toward her for the inevitable hand- 
clasp. His sudden presence startled the timid lady, and she 
stood for a moment quite speechless, with her hand gently 
patting her hair and her eyes expressing great surprise. 

"I only came in for a moment, Mary," she said, seat- 
ing herself quietly near her friend. 

"We were discussing a plan which Mr. Ringrose has 
formed for the purpose of raising a certain amount of money 
for missionary purposes," said Mary, smiling brightly upon 
her friend. "In order that the honor of contributing to so 
worthy a cause may be equally divided, Mr. Ringrose pro- 
poses that we give an entertainment in the form of a charade 
— a little play, you know — the various characters of which 
are to be interpreted by members of the church." 

"My gracious !" cried Aunt Sadie, her imagination fired 
in a moment. "Won't that be grand ! But when will it 
be, Mary? Not before Saturday, I hope? My boy has gone 
away for a few days, but he will be here by Saturday. He 
must see it, Mary." 

"My dear Auntie," cried Mary, laughing. "It can't be 
for weeks yet — or months !" 

"Oh !" said Aunt Sadie, in deep disappointment. 

"You see. Sister," said Mr. Ringrose, "it is only an 
idea as yet, a step contemplated, but extremely uncertain 
because we do not know if we can carry it out. In the first 
place it is something quite new and original, something that 
has never before been attempted here, and there will be a 
natural prejudice on the part of the more old-fashioned to 
overcome." 

"Oh !" said Aunt Sadie, whose shy brown eyes through- 
out the minister's little speech had flashed in momentary 
flashes upon him, then roved quickly away. 

"I should like, if possible, to get Sherman to take a 
part in the play," continued Mr. Ringrose. 


ii6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''My gracious, yes cried Aunt Sadie, delightedly. In 
a flash she saw her boy strutting in heroic grandeur before 
a breathless audience. 

"I have an excellent part for him,’’ said his reverence, 
"it is that of a villain — ” 

"A villain,” faltered Aunt Sadie, glancing with dismay 
from Mr. Ringrose to Mary. "My boy a villain, Mary! 
Why he’s the sweetest, purest boy in the world.” 

She regarded the minister with an aspect of determined 
resolution, as if she quite defied him to contradict her. 

"But he could take the part in a play. Auntie,” said 
Mary. 

"He couldn’t, Mary,” said Aunt Sadie, indignantly. 
"Why, how could he? I’m surprised, Mary, that you should 
think so.” 

"Perhaps Sister Watterson will herself take a part,” 
said Mr. Ringrose. 

This was too much. Aunt Sadie rose hurriedly, gather- 
ing her ample skirts together in her hands. 

"I must really go now, Mary,” she said breathlessly, 
"I merely stopped in in passing. Good-bye.” 

And with a gentle inclination of the head towards Mr. 
Ringrose, she fled. 

"My gracious!” gasped Aunt Sadie, breathing deeply 
as she clambered into her phaeton, "how very terrible I My 
boy a villain, and me in a play! Dear! Dear!” 

"I must go now. Sister Marblemore,” said Mr. Ring- 
rose, rising, "I have some calls to make.” 

He pressed her hand warmly at parting and warmly 
looked into her eyes, his own expressing the audacious admi- 
ration he felt for her womanly beauty. 

"I may come again,” he said, "to talk it over?” 

"Yes, if you wish,” she replied in tones of constraint. 

Sitting beside the window, which opened upon the 
lawn, she followed him with her eyes. His graceful figure 
set ofif to full advantage in his long frock coat, filled her 
with strange interest. Her recollection of his eyes and what 
she had read in them, awakened in her a sensation such as 
she had never known. Mary sat looking out long after he 
had disappeared from her sight — thinking, thinking, think- 


THE REV. MORTIMER RINGROSE MAKES A CALL. II7 

ing of him and of his daring. She went upstairs to her 
room after a while, but wandered restlessly back again. She 
remained at home all the evening. She had no duties, no 
cares or responsibilities. Her life was absolutely empty and 
devoid of interest. She was a perpetual victim of ennui, 
given to melancholy thoughts, brooding always, until brood- 
ing had become second nature to her — a state of mind so 
habitual as to become apathetic. 

But this evening she spent in feverish activity. Visi- 
tors came, neighbors, friends and trades-people. She re- 
ceived them all, and when quite alone later in the evening 
she went wandering through the great house, exploring 
nooks and corners where probably she had never been before, 
always thinking, thinking, of the man whose eyes haunted 
her. She could not banish him from her mind. Her 
thoughts of him were vague and disquieting, but none the 
less imbued with a certain interesting charm that caught 
her fancy and held it for hours in thrall. 

She met her husband that evening almost at the outer 
door. She had been waiting for him in the wide hallway. 
He was no less astonished than delighted by this unusual 
mark of aflfection on her part. 

‘‘What is it, Mary?^' he said, when they were alone in 
the little parlor adjoining the dining-room. 

“Nothing, Andrew,'’ she answered. “I become im- 
patient sometimes when you are away so long." 

“My dear Mary," he said. He sat for a time revolving 
her words in his mind. “Do you want any money, Mary?" 
he said, abstractedly. 

She turned away from him then and, in a strangely 
altered voice, said “No," and walked out of the room. 

He gazed after her in mild surprise. He did not con- 
nect her abrupt departure with his question, nor had he at 
all noticed her altered manner. Money was the thing at all 
times uppermost in his thoughts, and wishing to reward an 
act of unusual kindness his mind had naturally, or rather 
mechanically suggested money as the only desirable means 
of showing his gratitude. 

Mary’s demeanor at dinner was as cold and calm as 
usual, but he hugged to his soul the thought of a heart that 
beat warmly for him beneath her cold exterior. 


CHAPTER IX. 


IN WHICH HIS REVERENCE GAINS A CONFIDANT AND FRIEND. 

Mr. Ringrose walked slowly away from the great 
mansion, his head bent in thought. He nodded courteously 
in answering the respectful greetings of those whom he met ; 
he smiled at the sisters, exchanged a laughing word with a 
brother minister driving by, he patted the curly pates of 
awed children, and once put his hand into his pocket when 
solicited, and, with a kindly smile, bestowed a silver dollar 
upon a particularly ragged specimen of humanity. But 
through it all his mind was busy with thoughts of the woman 
he had left behind in that gorgeous mansion. 

How beautiful she was, how strangely alluring in her 
high position. Was she happy with that great booby, her 
husband? Impossible! Mr. Ringrose smiled, recalling that 
charming little grimace which she had bestowed upon him, 
as if in mutual contempt of the stiff-necked banker’s haughty 
demeanor. And those eyes, how timidly they had encount- 
ered his ; questioning they were ; but not forbidding. It 
was as if she sought his purpose in gazing upon her; she 
did not understand, but she was not offended. 

His reverence smiled once more, and turned towards 
the little white cottage in which dwelt the widow Rosewood. 
The door was promptly opened in answer to his knock, and 
Mrs. Rosewood herself appeared upon the threshold. 

The little widow blushed and smiled as she drew back, 
opening the door to its fullest width. 

''And how is Sister Rosewood today?” asked Mr. Ring- 
rose, pressing her hand and smiling sweetly into her eyes. 

"Quite well,” replied Mrs. Rosewood, internally thank- 
ing her stars that she had on her neatest, prettiest pink and 
white wrapper. She made an effort to withdraw her hand 
from his embrace, but he did not release it at once. 

"You are looking well, Sister,” he said softly. 

"Thank you,” replied the little widow, smiling. 


HIS REVERENCE GAINS A CONFIDANT AND FRIEND. II9 

She placed a chair for the minister, and herself sat 
down quite across the little parlor opposite him, folding her 
hands demurely in her lap. 

‘Tin so glad to have found you at home,” said his 
reverence. '‘I wished to talk over a certain matter with 
you.” 

Mrs. Rosewood smiled down at her hands, not at all 
displeased it would seem at the glance of his eyes. 

''I shall be delighted,” she said. 

Then he told her of the project he had formed, of the 
success he had met with in endeavoring to interest the more 
influential members of his flock, and throughout this little 
recital he kept his admiring eyes fixed persistently upon 
the little widow, who divided her glance between the minis- 
ter’s handsome face and her own plump, white hands, ex- 
hibiting through it all a mixture of consciousness and con- 
fusion that would have sat better upon a woman of half 
her years. 

'Tt was very kind of you to think of me,” said Mrs. 
Rosewood, when he had finished with a plea for her con- 
sideration and interest in his plan. 

‘'And why shouldn’t I think of you. Sister,” said Mr. 
Ringrose rising and coming across to her, and seating him- 
self on a convenient chair beside her own. “Why shouldn’t 
I think of you?” 

He took one of her plump hands in his and pressed it 
gently. 

“I don’t know. I’m sure,” said Mrs. Rosewood, her lips 
trembling as if she would cry. “Because I’m so poor, I 
guess.” 

“What difference can that make. Sister? Poverty is no 
disgrace. Do you think that our wealthier sisters are of 
more importance in my eyes because of their greater wealth ? 
It is natural to long for wealth and to envy those who pos- 
sess it — perfectly natural, because it is one of the weaknesses 
of erring Human Nature, but if we who are poor would but 
pause and reflect upon what we have in place of wealth, we 
would be supremely content with our lot. Now, Sister — 
looking at you, sitting here beside you,, holding your hand 
in mine — I say that you are not poor but very rich.” 


120 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''All you men are alike/' said Mrs. Rosewood, dimpling. 

"No, no. Sister," he protested warmly; "not all." 

"Yes, all." 

"No, no. Sister. Am I like other men now, Sister? Am 
I ?" he said, looking deep into her eyes. 

"Well, no; you are diflferent," said Mrs. Rosewood, 
returning his glance, but with a vague feeling of alarm. 
"You are so — so bold !" / 

He laughed softly. He saw that his boldness did not 
displease her. He raised her hand to his lips, still looking 
into her eyes, and kissed it ere she could withdraw it. She 
gave a little gasp, but laughed the next moment. 

"Not bold. Sister," he said, shaking his head, "surely I 
have done nothing to oflfend you?" 

The little widow looked at her hand, then turned her 
gaze on him, her cheeks reddening as she slowly shook her 
head. 

"I would like to ask you to be my friend," said his 
reverence, softly, "my particular friend and confidant. I 
have been around a good deal during the past few weeks, 
but I have seen no one whom I would rather trust, and it 
is necessary for a pastor to have a friend and confidant to 
whom he can turn at times for counsel and assistance. 
Would you care to be my friend. Sister Rosewood?" 

"Yes, only what can I do?" 

"Much, very much. You can first of all tell me about 
my people ; what they are, and what they do, and, above all, 
what they say of me. It is very necessary for me to know 
this. I am not happy in my home life. Sister," continued his 
reverence, sadly. 

"Ah!" said Mrs. Rosewood, shaking her head vaguely. 

"No, I am very miserable. One who should be a loving 
companion and confidant to me is — well, it is not for me to 
speak of it." 

"Ah !" said Mrs. Rosewood again. 

"If I had a friend and confidant now to whom I could 
turn for that consolation of which I am deprived at home," 
pursued his reverence, again taking her plump hand in his, 
"it would make me the happiest of men." 

"But what can I do?" said Mrs. Rosewood again. 


HIS REVERENCE GAINS A CONFIDANT AND FRIEND. I2I 


‘‘You can assist me by telling me of your friends. You 
see, dear friend and sister, my position is a difficult one, but 
for many reasons I am determined to hold it ; to do so it is 
necessary for me to know — thoroughly know — the differ- 
ent people over whom I am placed, especially the more im- 
portant. I wish to know how to approach them, how 
to converse with each so that I may not jar upon or in 
any way offend any one. I must win and retain the favor of 
the individual great men. I must be popular, in a word. Do 
you understand me. Sister? I must know which of our 
sisters are proud, which kind and genial, and which have 
the most influence with their neighbors. You must tell me 
who among them are deeply religious, who, frivolous, who, 
given to gossip and slander, and so on, so that in my inter- 
course with them I may know how to conduct myself with 
each and every one.'' 

Mrs. Rosewood was distinctly conscious of feeling 
shocked. She had no more religious feeling than a post, but 
still she felt shocked and surprised. Her idea of a minister, 
though vague and uncertain, was still widely different from 
this. To be sure this reverend gentleman's bold and open 
admiration of her charms was out of keeping with her 
hitherto accepted notion of what a minister should be ; but 
that admiration had seemed wholly natural to her and not 
at all surprising, while his cold-blooded elucidation of his 
position and his wishes shocked her and distinctly lowered 
him even in her shallow estimation. This feeling cheapening 
him in her mind brought him nearer to her. 

“Are you not popular now?’' she asked. 

“Yes, but this is an ephemeral popularity. It will die 
out presently, unless I take proper precautions, and it is for 
the sake of such precautionary measures that I must know 
those about me. You see I put very great confidence in my 
little, friend," he said, again kissing her hand. 

“It is not misplaced," said Mrs. Rosewood, with a feel- 
ing of conscious rectitude. 

“I know it," said Mr. Ringrose, “and now. Sister, tell 
me about Sister Watterson. She is very highly thought of 
everywhere, is she not?" 

“Aunt Sadie? Yes, indeed." 


122 


THE WATTERSONS. 


“Is not she deeply religious?’' 

“I don’t know that. I believe so, though. She is very 
good.” 

“Which means the same thing you would say?” said his 
reverence smiling and shaking his head. “And her brother, 
the great politician?” 

“He is a good man,” she replied, in a slightly con- 
strained voice. 

“He is generally so considered?” 

“Yes. Everybody respects him — admires him — loves 
him almost as they love Aunt Sadie; only everybody is a 
little afraid of him. Not afraid, you know, only — only — ” 

“Awed by his presence? I can understand that. He is 
very quiet, is he not? Never interferes anywhere? I thought 
so. He is very powerful I find. I should say that a word 
from him would go farther than one from Brother Marble- 
more. But he is not a man to speak that word, I believe. 
General Hamilton is his warm friend, is he not? He never 
attends church, I understand? A perfect heathen, and 
Brother Marblemore’s bitter enemy?” 

Mrs. Rosewood nodded, as she had nodded or shook 
her head according to the nature of his foregoing questions. 

“And Brother Marblemore? What kind of a man 
would you call him now?” 

“A rich one.” 

Mr. Ringrose laughed and Mrs. Rosewood laughed 
with him. 

“Of course you know that,” said Mrs. Rosewood, smil- 
ing. “But he is very much richer than you imagine. It is 
said that he is worth ten million dollars — some say twenty, 
some even go as far as fifty.” 

“Which means probably two or three at the utmost.” 

“I don’t know. He has more than fifty banks scattered 
through the State, branches of this one, and he is besides 
interested in railroads and things.” 

“And the man?” 

“Oh, he is very stifif and proud, though I have heard 
that he was not always so. It is said that he was much dif- 
ferent when he was a poor man, and that he has become this 
way only since he became rich.” 


HIS REVERENCE GAINS A CONFIDANT AND FRIEND. I23 

“He at least is happily married,’’ said his reverence, 
regarding the animated little woman from beneath half- 
closed lids. 

''I suppose so. He was married twice, you know.” 

''No, indeed, I did not know,” cried the minister in 
simulated surprise. 

'‘Why, yes,” said Mrs. Rosewood, delighted with the 
astonishment he showed. "Clara is his daughter by a first 
marriage and Elmer is his stepson.” 

"Indeed! You overwhelm me!” 

"She has been married three times !” 

"Mrs. Marblemore!” 

"Yes, indeed; Elmer is her son by her first marriage.” 

"But he calls himself Marblemore.” 

"Yes, he took the banker’s name upon his mother’s 
marriage. It was Mr. Marblemore’s wish. She is related 
to the Wattersons through her second marriage. Her sec- 
ond husband was Richard Watterson, Mr. Watterson’s 
cousin, and Sherman Watterson’s father. So that she is 
Sherman’s stepmother, which makes Elmer and Sherman 
stepbrothers.” 

"Why, this is quite interesting,” cried Mr. Ringrose 
with a smile. 

"But the most interesting part remains,” said Mrs. 
Rosewood, significantly. "Mrs. Marblemore, you must 
know, does not belong to Clarenceburg at all. She lived in 
Ohio somewhere. There she married and lost her first hus- 
band, and there she met Richard Watterson. He was very 
wild, young Richard, I have heard. He was obliged to 
leave Clarenceburg on account of some trouble. He went 
away ; and after roaming about the world for some time, he 
settled in Ohio. He was a physician. He married, but 
lost his wife, and was living alone with his little son, Sher- 
man, when he met the present Mrs. Marblemore, then a 
widow with an only son, Elmer. They were married, I un- 
derstand, on the third day after their first meeting. Their 
married life was very unhappy, owing to the two boys. 
Richard could not bear Elmer, and Mrs. Marblemore hated 
Sherman. Richard died after awhile, and she came to 
Clarenceburg to make her home with the Wattersons, bring- 


124 


THE WATTERSONS. 


ing Elmer with her, but not Sherman. Him she had left 
behind.'’ 

'‘Left behind !" cried Mr. Ringrose, raising both white 
hands in smiling amazement. 

Mrs. Rosewood pursed her lips thinly, then smiled with 
bitter significance. 

“Yes. Mr. Watterson knew nothing of his cousin's 
doings during all those years. They knew nothing of his 
first marriage and, of course, could not know of Sherman’s 
existence. It was easy to deceive them." 

“And did Mrs. Marblemore deceive them? How?" 

“By leaving Sherman behind, and saying nothing about 
him," replied the little widow with mouth severely drawn. 

“Impossible ! Why should she do this monstrous 
thing?" 

“She was poor; she loved her son; she hated her step- 
son. By this means she assured herself a good home, and 
her son a splendid future." 

“You overwhelm me!" said Mr. Ringrose again. “But 
how did it all end ? Sherman is here, I see, and Elmer also ; 
and both, apparently, in their proper places." 

“Mrs. Marblemore became very sick about six years 
ago. She was given up by the doctors, and when she 
thought that she was going to die, she confessed the wrong 
she had done. I nursed her during her long illness ; that is 
how I know this. Aunt Sadie and Mr. Watterson were hor- 
rified, as you may imagine. They instituted a thorough 
search for the missing boy, and found him after a time in an 
orphan's home. Mr. Watterson at once brought him to 
Clarenceburg. That was, as I have said, six years ago — ten 
years after her coming here. She had married well in the 
meantime, and had provided for her son, but she never 
thought of repairing the cruel wrong done to the poor de- 
serted orphan until the fear of death was upon her." 

Mr. Ringrose sat for a time gazing in thoughtful silence 
at the carpet. The little widow, in quite an animated glow, 
regarded him with smiling eyes ; quite charmed with the 
efifect she had made upon the handsome minister. 

“The Wattersons have forgiven her, it seems," said Mr. 
Ringrose, after a time. “They are close friends." 


HIS REVERENCE GAINS A CONFIDANT AND FRIEND. I25 

''Oh, yes. Aunt Sadie was deeply shocked, but she can- 
not bear ill-will towards anyone; as for Mr. Watterson,’’ — 
she concluded, with a shrug, implying unending forbearance 
on the part of the big man. 

"She married the great banker for love, of course?” sug- 
gested his reverence. 

Mrs. Rosewood pursed her lips and slowly shook her 
head. 

"I don’t think so,” she said. 

"For his money? Come, now. Sister, surely not?” 

Again the little woman pursed her lips and shook her 
head. 

"I don’t think so.” 

"What? Why this is mysterious,” cried the minister 
gayly. 

"She does not care for him at all, and she certainly 
hates money. She spends it freely enough — not that she 
cares for the spending of it, but as I have often thought, be- 
cause she has a kind of spite against it.” 

"Then why should she have married him?” asked the 
minister, thoughtfully. 

Mrs. Rosewood shook her head. Judging her wealthy 
neighbor by herself, she had long been of the opinion that 
Mary had really loved Mr. Watterson, but that stung by his 
stern coldness she had in a fit of rage thrown herself into 
the arms of her present husband. But this theory the little 
woman had sufficient prudence to keep to herself. 

"He worships her,” she said. 

"Ah !” 

"And he is very proud of her.” 

"Ah !” 

"She is very beautiful,” said Mrs. Rosewood, a little 
wistfully. 

"She, too, is cold and proud?” suggested the minister, 
who seemed lost in deep thought. 

"Oh, no. She may be cold, but she is not proud. She 
is friendly with every one. She never goes anywhere except 
to Aunt Sadie’s, but every one is welcome to call upon her, 
and she treats all her neighbors with equal kindness. She 


126 


THE WATTERSONS. 


is as much thought of as Aunt Sadie — only in a diflferent 
way/' 

''A kind of Grand Dame, while Aunt Sadie is a Lady 
Bountiful," suggested Mr. Ringrose, smiling. 

Mrs. Rosewood nodded with a rather bitter compression 
of the mouth. 

''I have learned much that will be of assistance to me 
from my little friend," said his reverence, smiling, “but 
above all I have learned that you. Sister Rosewood, are a 
very generous friend and a good-natured critic." 

“Oh, IVe got lots of enemies," said the little widow, 
laughing. “Only you haven’t asked me about them." 

“Some other time will do. Just now I wish to know if 
you will take an active part in my entertainment." 

“I don’t mind." 

“Then I can rely upon you. Perhaps I shall have noth- i 
ing better to offer you than the part of a flower girl, but it 
is 'all in a good cause, and," he added with an admiring i 
glance, “what a lovely flower girl you would make." 

“Oh, Mr. Ringrose !" said the little widow, in a tone of | 
protest. : 

“It is true, and why should not I speak the truth? I I 
may call upon my little friend and confidant again?" 

“I shall be pleased." 

His reverence squeezed her hand ardently, as they stood 
for a moment together at parting, then, with a sudden, quick 
movement he bent down and kissed her lips. It would seem 
that she had half expected this caress, for while she colored 
and drew back a little for mere propriety’s sake, she burst 
into a little laugh and put her hand over her mouth as if to 
protect it from a second attack, regarding the minister in 
the meantime with a look eloquent of arch complacency. 

“You should not," she said, as he stood holding her in 
his arms, smiling down at her. 

“Why not ?" he said tenderly. 

“You a minister! Fie!" 

“It is Human Nature to succumb to temptation," said 
his reverence with much solemnity, “and the temptation was 
very great. Human Nature is weak, my dear Sister — very 
weak and erring, and when temptation besets us we must 


HIS REVERENCE GAINS A CONFIDANT AND FRIEND. I27 

give way. It is not strange, nor surprising that I a minister 
should yield to this weakness, because I partake of the same 
Human Nature as my brothers. Nor is it wrong save under 
man-made laws to which we all submit under compulsion. 
Nature's laws are much sweeter, and they impel me to do 
that which I have done — and do now.’' 

He bent down again, and again pressed his bearded lips 
to hers. She did not draw back now, feeling probably some 
stirring of long dormant passion at coming into contact with 
this strong, handsome man. 

''Ah ! Human Nature, Human Nature,” continued his 
reverence, shaking his head mournfully, " you are responsi- 
ble for many things ; things sweet and things bitter. To 
you are due the happiness, the disappointments, the errors 
and the weaknesses of mankind. Were you not weak, Man 
would be strong; were you not erring, Man would be pure. 
But subject to your inexorable promptings we are, alas! 
all erring and all sinful.” 

Evidently again beset by the weakness he so deplored, 
he again bent down as it were absently and kissed the pretty 
little widow, who, far from withdrawing now, met him 
half way. 

She sat beside her window looking out when he had 
gone, thinking deeply. Perhaps she had come to the turn- 
ing point in her life. She was very lonely and unhappy, a 
disappointed little woman given to bitter musing and re- 
flection. She could have married a score of times, but her 
ambitious hope in one direction had led her to turn her back 
upon her many suitors until none now remained. Her hopes 
blasted, her suitors gone, without riches, friends or the con- 
solation that infirm characters often find in religion, she 
saw in the future nothing but dark loneliness and despair. 
She thought of the handsome minister; she knew very well 
what his attentions meant. They could mean but one thing 
coming from such a source. And why not? What had she 
to live for? to care for? Nothing! She was seized with 
a spirit of reckless abandon sitting there. What cared she 
for the world ? It cared nothing for her. It had shown her 
nothing but unkindness, she declared bitterly, comparing her 
let with that of the more fortunately placed women around 


128 


THE WATTERSONS. 


her. Let him come to her with soft words, with kisses and 
embraces, she would receive him and them and enjoy life 
to the full ! 

It was getting dark without, but still she sat there 
musing these things, and did not move even when she heard 
Rosie returning from her work. She came in all aglow from 
her walk, tripping lightly across the dining-room into her 
own little chamber. How pretty the girl was, thought the 
little widow, with a pang for her own lost beauty. She was 
very handsome indeed — for her age, but that was not Rosie’s 
age. Rosie was an exact counterpart of what she had been 
at her age. Beside her blooming little daughter, the youth- 
ful copy of what she once had been, she looked the middle- 
aged woman she was, fat and faded, and all of forty years 
of age, though she was barely thirty-six. Knowing this 
she hated the child with an astonishing virulence. She 
never went out with her daughter, never was seen in public 
with the blooming little girl, and in private she treated her 
with an aversion amounting almost to tyranny. Rosie bore 
with it patiently. She was a timid child, very soft-hearted 
and gentle. 

‘'Where are you. Mama?” said Rosie, coming into the 
parlor. “Sitting here all alone?” 

She spoke timidly, like one uncertain of her reception; 
nor did she approach her mother to kiss her. 

“Light the lamp, will you?” was Mrs. Rosewood’s 
reply. “I am not feeling well.” 

Rosie did her bidding, bustling about with tremendous 
ardor, as if to conciliate her mother’s angry frown. 

“We had a very busy day today. Mama,” she said, 
seating herself near her mother, upon the chair which His 
Reverence had but just vacated. She began to chatter away, 
recounting all th^ little incidents, comic or tragic, that had 
enlivened her day, to which Mrs. Rosewood, still busied with 
her thoughts, listened in an abstracted manner. Receiving 
neither encouragement nor attention, Rosie became silent 
after a time, and went tripping into the kitchen to assist 
Lotty in preparing the evening meal. 


CHAPTER X. 


IN WHICH LITTLE ROSIE ATTENDS A PLAY. 

Though her home life was anything but happy, little 
Rosie bore herself in the face of the world with becoming 
gayety and cheerfulness. You could not ruffle her temper 
nor mar the bright glance of her eyes, nor provoke one im- 
patient word or movement from the smiling little maid. 
She was quietly happy. Her companions at the store, all 
girls of her own age, were her warm friends. They were 
all equally happy in the heyday of blooming youth, pulsating 
with life and vitality, and overflowing with love for all the 
world, with oceans in store for the longed-for Prince 
Charming. They could hardly contain themselves, so full 
of life and the joy of life were they. They were constantly 
smiling at each other, and casting bewitching glances of arch 
delight at the mirrors flashing all around them, forever 
giggling and bursting into peals of laughter, darting here 
and there with lightning-like movements in attending to the 
wants of customers, joyous, smiling, coquettish little crea- 
tures, full of fun and vim and vanity. 

Murly was a shrewd business man who knew the value 
of bright eyes and brisk youth behind his glittering coun- 
ters; his prettiest girls presided over the masculine finery 
and waited upon the male youth of Clarenceburg. Wise 
MurlyH Who would go to Oppenheim's across the way 
to purchase a tie, for example, once having bought of little 
Rosie? Obviously no one — no young man at least. They 
came again and again, the rogues, to gaze into Rosie’s shy 
dark eyes — and to buy more ties. Some danced giddily on 
the verge of bankruptcy to lay in ties. Rosie felt very guilty 
when she thought of the bales and bales of ties stored away 
by several impassioned young men of her acquaintance. Not 
that Rosie encouraged them to such extravagance. 

No! No! But what could she do? She could not find 
it in her heart to frown upon her admirers. She was a 


130 


THE WATTERSONS. 


sunny little woman, fond of showing her pretty teeth in 
smiling good humor. So she smiled and Murly smiled with 
her — and increased his stock of ties. No need for Rosie to 
recommend her wares. Men asked not if the colors would 
hold, if the styles were up to date. Not they ! They did 
not care. Beneath Rosie’s alluring glance there was no 
room for doubt. They came again and again, came in 
dozens, in scores, and Rosie replenished her depleted stock 
from the numberless boxes on the shelves behind her 
counter, and demurely awaited others. Wicked little Rosie ! 

She was strictly business-like in business hours, was 
little Rosie. If she spoke at all it was in answer to some 
question. The moment the theatre was mentioned or a 
party spoken of by a too forward youth, Rosie’s glance be- 
came freezingly cold, her smile vanished and her little 
forehead puckered up into a prodigious frown. But still 
they came and persistently assailed the little maid with 
undesired attentions. It was most annoying. Rosie did not 
want their company anywhere and it gave her pain to re- 
peatedly refuse this or that sighing youngster, but they 
would not let her alone. 

There was one persistent young man in particular 
whom Rosie detested, a pale, slender, serious young fellow, 
a drug clerk, Thomas by name, but facetiously called 
Featherbone, after his employer, by Rosie’s mischievous com- 
panions. He had a mania for impossible ties, this young 
man. He squandered his weekly wages on ties, coming in 
almost every evening to purchase a new one, and spending 
an unconscionable long time in selecting it. The girls 
chaffed Rosie unmercifully about him, and Rosie in con- 
sequence felt more unkindly disposed towards this young 
man than towards all her other admirers combined. The 
moment he entered the store there ensued a great whispering 
and giggling. Girls nudged each other and smiled across 
at Rosie; and when the stricken youth was bending over 
the little maid’s counter, stage whispers came floating to 
Rosie’s tingling ears, remarking upon the approaching wed- 
ding and coming bridal tour. All of which annoyed Rosie 
very much and made her manner towards young Mr. 
Thomas very cold and constrained. 


IN WHICH LITTLE ROSIE ATTENDS A PLAY. I3I 

Although Rosie is constantly referred to as Little Rosie 
in these pages, she was by no means diminutive in stature. 
She was fully as tall as her mother, coming well up to 
Myrtle’s chin. But she was so exquisitely modeled, so 
daintily rounded in form and withal so neat and trim a little 
figure, that she was everywhere spoken of as Little Rosie. 

She was charming with her nice, round, rosy little face 
and air of smiling innocence. She was shy and reserved, 
and silent always, having not a word to say for herself at 
any time — was as quiet with her chattering companions as 
in older and graver company. A pretty doll, the women 
called her, and this was very likely a truer estimate of 
Rosie than many another. Certainly she was not bright 
nor witty. She had not two ideas in her little head 
beyond adorning her little person,* but she was truthful, 
honest and cheerful, possessing her share of vanity, no 
doubt, but with a proportionate share of modesty to balance 
and offset it. 

Yes, little Rosie was very happy in spite of hard work 
and the confinement entailed by her employment; happier 
just now perhaps than she had been at any other period of 
her life. For her soul was filled with love. A little bird was 
singing in her bosom through all the livelong day, and the 
burden of the song was Elmer. Her heart swelled with 
passion at the thought of him. Her bosom rose and fell 
in stormy emotion, and her eyes filled with tears at the 
casual mention of his name. He was most devoted to her, 
was Elmer. He singled her out everywhere, accompanied 
her home from parties where they met by chance or by 
previous arrangement. He walked home with her from 
church, coming at the last moment for no other purpose — 
for Elmer was of the ungodly, a reputed reprobate of the 
blackest dye. Rosie did not believe half of the stories told 
of him, and smiled indulgently at such as seemed altogether 
probable, as faults common to young men. 

One evening when the working day had but an hour to 
run, Rosie stood idly behind her counter, patiently waiting 
the hour of release. There were few people in the store, 
and the girls were cutting up in consequence, or standing 
together chatting, for Murly was by no means a strict dis- 


132 


THE WATTERSONS. 


ciplinarian. Rosie, having nothing else to do, was touching 
up her wares, arranging the cravats and ties in prettier rows, 
when she perceived a sudden commotion among her com- 
panions. Little but*sts of laughter came floating to her, 
intermingled with whisperings in which her name was men- 
tioned. Little Rosie, curious to see what it all meant, stood 
on tip-toe, and stretched her little neck in an effort to clear 
an intervening show-case, and saw — Elmer ! She felt her- 
self blushing and tingling to the tips of her fingers. She 
bent down hastily to glance under the counter and thus 
account for her heightened color when she looked again. 
Yes, it was Elmer. He was going from counter to counter 
in search of the tie department, the droll rogue ! He 
paused to speak to all the girls, taking pains to explain to 
each his needs in ties, his tastes in ties, his favorite shades 
and colors. He had heard so much of Murly’s excellent 
ties, he said. He had been told of the beauty and grace of 
Murly’s. girls, and would she kindly remain quiet for a 
moment, very quiet and grave, as he wished to verify the 
reports? All this with a preternaturally solemn counte- 
nance. The girls were dodging under counters, almost chok- 
ing with laughter, and Rosie was standing behind her 
counter all trembling with impatience, and terror, and hap- 
piness immeasurable. 

“Why, Rosie,'’ he said, coming up, “Em so surprised !” 

He was more than surprised, amazed and delighted, he 
said. He insisted on shaking hands with the little maid, 
and did so in the face of her giggling companions to Rosie’s 
great confusion. He inquired, with an air of great solici- 
tude, after her mother, and expressed himself as highly 
delighted with the general state of that lady’s health, as 
reported by Rosie. The evening was rather cool, he said, in 
proof of which he showed the long raglan he wore, which 
became his tall, slender figure exceedingly well, Rosie 
thought. Then he turned to the ties. What color did Rosie 
consider most becoming? Rosie did not know — color was 
a matter of taste. To be sure, but surely she had an opin- 
ion? No, Rosie had no opinion. But she must make a 
suggestion. Then, Rosie thought shyly that blue would 
look very nice — a pale blue like that one. Just the thing! 


IN WHICH LITTLE ROSIE ATTENDS A PLAY. I33 


Blue was Elmer’s favorite color. He doted on blue; he 
adored blue. Blue had become a passion with him ever 
since he had seen Rosie dressed in that glorious color once 
upon a time — oh, years ago. Oh dear, he shouldn’t talk 
that way, he really shouldn’t ! Why not ? The — the girls 
were listening. Hang the girls ! Oh, dear me, no ! He really 
mustn’t. 

''Which shall I take, Rosie?” asked Elmer, smiling. 

"I — I can’t say,” said Rosie, shaking her head, "really 
I can’t.” 

"Then I shan’t take any,” declared Elmer. 

"Would — would this one do?” asked Rosie, forgetting 
all about his favorite color in her confusion and holding up 
a tie of flaming hue for his inspection. 

"Do you think it becoming?” said Elmer, holding it in 
position. 

Of course it was becoming ! How handsome he was, 
so tall and pale and slender, with his thick yellow hair and 
sunny blue eyes, and that smile, that wonderful smile that 
made Rosie wish herself his servant, his very slave. He 
was graceful and elegant, rather than strong, but broad and 
manly too. 

"Well, Rosie,” said Elmer, catching just a glimpse of 
her dark eyes as he looked up. 

"It looks very nice, sir,” said Rosie. 

"Sir!” cried Elmer, frowning. 

"I — I meant Elmer.” 

"Thank you, Rosie. Would you like to go to the 
theater tonight — with me?” 

"To the theater,” cried Rosie, showing her delight with 
refreshing openness. He had never asfcd her company 
there before, and until a girl goes with her lover to the 
theater how can she consider him her very own? 

"Would you care to go with me, little Rosie? It is 
the first play of the season. Will you go?” 

"Yes, Elmer, I shall be very happy,” said Rosie, in a 
low voice. 

"Well, I’ll be around then. Good-by, little Rosie.’’ 

He raised his hat with incomparable grace, and going 
across the aisle, he gravely deposited the money for his 


134 


THE WATTERSONS. 


purchase before Lizzie Ferguson, who, giggling like a mad 
thing, declined it. 

‘Tm not the cashier, sir,’’ she said, saucily. 

''Oh,” said Elmer, and promptly turned to the next girl 
and the next, until he had quite made the rounds of the 
store. One and all declined his offering. They followed 
him with bright eyes and laughing lips, for girls dearly 
love a droll young fellow, who can carry on his drollery 
with a gravity of manner approaching solemnity, and 
Elmer was a past master in the art. His astonishment at 
the general head-shaking was comical. He had never met 
such very strange girls before, he said. His experience 
with young ladies had hitherto been the very reverse — you 
could not give them money enough. He was amazed at 
their disinterestedness, absolutely dumbfounded. However, 
he reached the cashier’s desk in due course of time, and 
there succeeded in disposing of his money and, with a last 
smiling glance around, he went away. 

"Oh, Rosie, will you invite us to the wedding?” asked 
Lizzie. 

"When is it to be, Rosie?” demanded Minnie Kelly. 

They buzzed about Rosie like so many bees, each more 
curious than the other. Rosie evaded their questions as 
much as possible, and waited in trembling impatience for 
the closing knell to sound. When the bell did ring, after 
what seemed to Rosie an eternity of time, she hurried into 
her littel jacket with all her might, and then homeward. Al- 
though it was early in September, the weather was decidedly 
cool, by reason of one of those premature winter blasts 
which probably would vanish on the morrow, leaving sum- 
mer to reign once more in mild and cheerful radiance. But 
Rosie lightly tripping her way through the darkening street 
did not mind the cold at all. 

She reached home in a very short time, and mounting 
the veranda was just on the point of opening the side door 
when it opened inwardly and some one coming out ran into 
her. She looked up startled, and was surprised to find 
Mr. Ringrose confronting her. Mrs. Rosewood was 
directly behind him, holding the door. 

"Why, it’s little Rosie,” exclaimed the minister, gayly. 


IN WHICH LITTLE ROSIE ATTENDS A PLAY. I35 

He took the little girl’s hand in his and stepped back into 
the room, leading her. It was dark within. Mrs. Rose- 
wood struck a match at the moment and began fumbling 
with the lamp that stood usually in the center of the dining 
table. 

''I just stepped in a moment to consult with Sister Rose- 
wood upon some necessary church work,’' continued His 
Reverence, ''and what is my good fortune but to meet with 
little Rosie.” 

Rosie, without exactly knowing why, did not like his 
manner. It was too familiar by half. She withdrew her 
hand in some impatience and stood back a little. 

"Go and get your jacket off, child,” said Mrs. Rose- 
wood. 

Her gentle tone of voice surprised Rosie agreeably. 
She went into her room, wondering a little at her mother’s 
unwonted paleness and the uncommon brightness of her 
eyes. When she came out again Mrs. Rosewood was alone. 

"Where’s Lotty, Mama?” asked Rosie, looking into 
the darkened kitchen. 

"She’s gone home,” replied Mrs. Rosewood, crossly. 
"Help me with the supper and don’t ask questions.” 

The kitchen fire was quite out, and a new one had to 
be built. Rosie set to work with a will, and went bustling 
about with great briskness, humming so gayly at her work 
that Mrs. Rosewood looked at her from time to time in sur- 
prise. The supper was soon steaming upon the table, and 
they sat down to it, Rosie smiling merrily and Mrs. Rose- 
wood with something less of peevishness in her expression 
of countenance. 

"You are merry, child,” said the widow, presently. 

"I am. Mama,” said Rosie, turning her bright eyes upon 
her mother, "and I have reason to be.” 

"Have you, indeed? And may I ask the reason?” 

"Well,” said Rosie, balancing a spoon on the tip of 
one rosy finger, "you have been very kind to me for one 
thing.” 

"I was not aware of it,” replied her mother, dryly. 

"Oh, but I am. That makes me happy, because you 
are always so cross, aren’t you. Mama?” 


136 


THE WATTERSONS. 


^^Don’t be silly.” 

''But you are.” 

"Well, I am then.” 

"And then I am going to the theater tonight,” said 
Rosie, her eyes dancing. 

"Alone?” asked her mother, ironically. 

"No, Mama,” replied Rosie, saucily. "In the very best 
of company.” 

"Whose?” 

"Guess, Mama.” 

"Oh bother!” 

"Elmer’s, Mama.” . 

Rosie regarded her mother with very large eyes, her 
cheeks blushing and a smile playing around her lips. 

"Upon my word, but you are pretty child,” said Mrs. 
Rosewood, surveying her daughter in a kind of astonish- 
ment. Rosie, delighted beyond measure, bounded up and, 
coming around to her mother, threw her arms around the 
widow’s neck. 

"So you are going with Elmer?” said Mrs. Rosewood, 
putting Rosie’s arms away gently, but decidedly. 

"With Elmer, Mama ; and we must hurry through sup- 
per or I’ll be late, and that would be too bad the very first 
time, wouldn’t it. Mama? I don’t think I shall change my 
dress.” 

"Goodness, child!” cried her mother. "Are you crazy? 
Of course you must change your dress. Put on the very 
best you have — the cherry colored silk. I will help you as 
soon as we finish supper.” 

Rosie was too happy to eat. She nibbled daintily at a 
bit of bread and drank some tea, then hurried into her room 
to dress, Mrs. Rosewood accompanying her. They were 
almost ready when Elmer’s knock was heard at the front 
door. Mrs. Rosewood, carrying a lamp into the tiny parlor, 
went to meet her daughter’s caller. 

"Good evening, Mrs. Rosewood,” said Elmer, looking 
past her in search of Rosie. His rich merry voice came to 
Rosie in her chamber, creating such a stir of emotion in the 
little maid’s breast that she could hardly finish her dressing 
for trembling happiness. 


IN WHICH LITTLE ROSIE ATTENDS A PLAY. I37 

''Rosie will be out in a minute/' said Mrs. Rosewood, 
“won't you sit down a while?" 

“Thanks." 

He seemed rather embarrassed with her, but seated 
himself sprawling in a creaking rocker. 

“Rather cold out," he said. 

“How are you getting along in your part of the enter- 
tainment?" asked Mrs. Rosewood. 

He had carelessly agreed to take the principal male 
role in the much-talked of church entertainment, having had 
experience in amateur theatricals. 

“I haven't looked at it yet," he said, carelessly. “It'll 
take Ringrose ten years to get arpund the stifif-necked mem- 
bers who are opposed to the thing, and another ten years 
then to get things in shape. In my opinion it’ll never come 
off, and so mother thinks — so what's the use of bothering?" 

“That would be too bad." 

Rosie came in quietly at this moment, casting a shy, 
smiling glance at her handsome lover. Elmer straightened 
up with a start at her entrance, and sat in wide-eyed admira- 
tion regarding her. She looked extraordinarily beautiful in 
her pretty red dress, all covered with cunningly disposed 
ruffles and flounces of ribbon and of lace. She wore a wide- 
brimmed felt hat, matching the dress in color, with a single 
curling feather in the crown. Mrs. Rosewood looked her 
over critically and nodded approvingly. Elmer's eyes 
glowed with unnatural brightness as he gazed at the little 
girl. 

“Are you ready, Rosie?" he asked. 

She had but to draw ‘on her little jacket and gloves. 
With the first he gallantly assisted, and when her gloves 
were tightly drawn on the little hands, she nodded brightly 
up at him, and they went away together. 

“I had no idea that you were going to make such a 
fine appearance, Rosie," said Elmer, pressing the little gloved 
hand tenderly. 

He showed himself a gallant escort, being very careful 
of his pretty companion, as they walked along, cautioning 
her softly at crossings, and guiding her safely and gently 
past all obstructions. Rosie's heart bounded with joy and 


138 


THE WATTERSONS. 


pride and happiness. Other people were on the street, old 
and young of both sexes, for the most part bound in the same 
direction and doubtless for the same goal. 

“Had I known it,'' continued Elmer, “I would have 
brought a carriage for you." 

“Oh, dear no, Elmer," said Rosie, pressing his arm 
just the least little bit. “Oh, dear me, no." 

“No, little Rosie," he replied, smiling, “you would 
rather walk with me?" 

“Yes, Elmer." 

Then they walked on for a time in silence. Rosie did 
not feel the cold at all in her pretty little jacket, the collar 
of which was turned up around her neck, her round, rosy 
face looking out of it like a modest little flower. Sometimes 
she looked up shyly at Elmer, smiling in pure joy and hap- 
piness, and always encountered his passionate gaze regard- 
ing her; but strangely enough his open tenderness did not 
deepen her shyness, but rather emboldened her to look up 
again and again, and to show her pearly teeth in smiling 
pleasure at meeting his kind glance. She squeezed his arm 
gently and pressed close to him as they walked. 

My ! What throngs of people were passing into the 
theater, all of Clarenceburg surely, and half the country 
people around. Young farm lads, grave business men, 
mechanics and professional men of the city met and mingled 
here on equal footing, each accompanied by wife or sweet- 
heart, and all bent on an evening's recreation. Rosie knew 
them all, and felt them a happy, smiling host of friends on 
this beautiful evening. Elmer, with rare precaution, had 
secured seats earlier in the evening — well up in front they 
were, too, in just the spot which Rosie would have chosen. 
Sitting there in the midst of the gay throng the little maid 
could glance from time to time into the neighboring boxes 
and note later arrivals there, and mark the newer features of 
the ladies' dresses, and the presence and bearing of the men. 
Aunt Sadie, who was passionately fond of the theater, and 
always early, sat in her box with her boy and Myrtle. Rosie 
timidly called Elmer’s attention to them, and was surprised 
to see the scowl with which he regarded them. 


IN WHICH LITTLE ROSIE ATTENDS A PLAY. I39 

‘They are always together/’ he muttered between his 
teeth. 

“Who, Elmer?” said Rosie, surprised at his moody ex- 
pression. 

“Look at Aunt Sadie,” said Elmer, by way of reply, 
smiling that rare smile which Rosie thought so wonderfully 
sweet, “dear, good, innocent Aunt Sadie. She is happiness 
personified.” 

Aunt Sadie sat half screened by the curtain, with her 
boy by her side, sitting between Myrtle and his adoring 
aunt. Her eyes roved from time to time out over the num- 
berless happy faces, but always returned proudly to her 
precious boy as if to invite the collective gaze of all present 
to his manifold perfections. She smiled at this or that 
little friend, nodded greetings to the more sedate, and in 
return received numberless smiling nods and airy kisses from 
loving neighbors and adoring children. The Marblemore 
box was still vacant, nor did those exalted personages appear 
until well into the first act. 

Rosie could hardly contain herself for sheer happiness. 
Her eyes shone brilliantly in the soft light of the myriad 
globes around about them, her cheeks glowed like fresh 
roses, her teeth glittered with such dazzling whiteness 
against her scarlet lips that Elmer’s passion rose with every 
passing moment. She had removed her jacket, with Elmer’s 
gallant assistance, and also her little round hat, standing 
forth in her pretty dress a ravishing figure. The red and 
white of her cheek and neck and brow shone all the more 
dazzling by contrast with the glossy blackness of her wavy 
tresses. 

“You are very, very beautiful, Rosie,” said Elmer, in a 
voice which, like his eyes, was passion-laden. He did not 
smile as one paying a compliment, but looked down at her 
very earnestly. Rosie returning his gaze felt an unaccount- 
able quaking at the heart as of fear. But no, it was not 
fear but happiness ! The girl was hardly conscious of her 
own great beauty. She had all her life been used to seeing 
the same, round little face looking out from her mirror. 
She thought well of that little face and considered it only 
natural that others should think well of it. She was a 


140 


THE WATTERSONS. 


pleasant little woman, having a friendly word and a smile 
for every one, and so the admiring glances she met with 
on all sides being to her mind merely expressions of friendly 
regard, were not at all out of place. She was a little sur- 
prised at Elmer’s earnestness, and very proud and glad of 
his admiration. 

But the play ! 

It was a rather amusing concoction, designed purely for 
laughter. The scenes were laid in Scotland. The plot 
revolved around a marriage performed secretly without the 
aid of law or clergy. The lovers simply clasped hands and 
repeated the marriage service, and it later transpires that 
this marriage is perfectly legal and binding, and through it 
the happy pair outwit the villain and come into an enormous 
fortune. In the end, for mere form’s sake, they are married 
a second time with vast pomp and circumstance in the pres- 
ence of family and friends. 

Rosie followed the story with breathless interest. She 
was charmed with the outcome. She laughed with great 
glee at the drolleries of the faithful old servant, and shud- 
dered at the cold-blooded attempts of the villain. Elmer, 
too, greatly admired the novel manner in which the lucky 
hero outwitted the plotting villain. It was so simple, he 
said. So it was, Rosie owned. So easy of accomplishment ! 
Why, any one could marry that way ! So they could, nodded 
Rosie. 

''Why shouldn’t we marry that way, Rosie ?” whispered 
Elmer. 

Good gracious ! How Rosie did blush ! How she 
laughed, glancing up at him with tender, shy glances ! How 
handsome he was ; how sweet and lovable ! He repeated the 
question, and again and again recurred to it; but of course i 
he did not mean it. Rosie was quite sure that he did not ' 
mean it. It was only his way. He was fond of teasing. 
She laughed very gayly, and returned his passionate glances : 
with looks equally tender. She felt merry and light-hearted, 
and oh, so happy ! 

"Wasn’t it done prettily?” he said. 

"It was, Elmer,” replied Rosie. 

"And it proved perfectly legal and binding.” 


IN WHICH LITTLE ROSIE ATTENDS A PLAY. I4I 

“So it did/' agreed Rosie, ''but they were married the 
second time, you know." 

"Of course, for mere form's sake. We could do that, 
too," he added, smiling. 

Rosie laughed again, thinking him very droll and very 
sweet. 

"We'll get married in the regular way later on, Rosie, 
and have a grand wedding, just as they did in the play," 
whispered that droll Elmer. 

Rosie laughed merrily, but would not commit herself 
to any such absurd proposal, but thought it very sweet and 
good of him to talk of their possible union, even though it 
was all in fun. It was a most enjoyable evening, the hap- 
piest, Rosie thought, she had ever spent in her life; and 
when at the end of the second act Elmer asked her if she 
would like to visit Aunt Sadie in her box, Rosie sprang up 
in great eagerness and glee. Aunt Sadie received them in 
her usual kind manner. 

"My gracious, child!" she said> regarding Rosie in 
wonder, "but you are wonderfully pretty tonight," 

Rosie thought it very strange that this astonishing fact 
should be a matter of general surprise that evening. She did 
not realize the change that a few short weeks had wrought 
in her. A light now blazed in her heart, a glowing beam 
of brightness, which shone through her outer self, lighting 
up her features to a beauty undreamed of by the little maid. 

They did not again return to their old seats, but re- 
mained in Aunt Sadie’s box through the third and closing 
act, Rosie sitting beside Myrtle in the seat which Sherman 
had surrendered to her, and Elmer standing behind Aunt 
Sadie’s chair. Aunt Sadie beamed down at her little friend 
and glanced from time to time at Elmer, expressing in her 
kind, brown eyes the utmost friendliness and good-will for 
the happiness of both. Rosie was conscious of Clara’s eyes 
across the way and of Mrs. Marblemore’s uneasy gaze, and 
she returned their cold glances timidly. They begrudged 
her Elmer, but she had a right to Elmer’s company as she 
had a right to his regard if she could win it. The box was 
small, and their presence rather overcrowded it, so Myrtle 


142 


THE WATTERSONS. 


sent Sherman away, telling him that it was his duty to pay 
his respects to Mrs. and Miss Marblemore. 

''I won’t stay long, Myrtle,’’ declared Sherman, rebelli- 
ously, ''and mind I’m going home with you.” 

"Yes, Sherman,” said Myrtle, sweetly. 

Rosie saw him presently standing behind Clara’s chair, 
glowering down on her. 

"Poor, dear boy,” murmured Myrtle, laughing. 

"Do you like plays of this kind. Myrtle?” asked Elmer. 

"Yes, it is all very amusing,” replied Myrtle, smiling. 
She wondered at his intense gaze and strange expression of 
countenance as he glanced from her to Rosie and back 
again. She wore a very pretty and becoming evening gown 
of her favorite color — grey, which ended in a collar of soft, 
white lace, fitting snugly around her throat. 

"Aunt Sadie, too, finds it all very amusing,” mused 
Elmer, turning to her. 

"Surely Elmer,” said Aunt Sadie, settling herself with 
an air of great enjoyment as she gently smoothed the folds 
of her magnificent black velvet gown. "It’s all such fun. 
Of course, we know how absurd and impossible it all is ; 
that’s why we can enjoy it. Life — real life if truthfully 
depicted is scarcely amusing. But a story such as this is 
meant for laughter. It is a kind of puzzle for grown-up 
children; a very complicated, ludicrous, absurd puzzle, but 
such fun !” 

The play came to an end, as all plays will ; the curtain 
rose for the last time in answer to the uproarious applause, 
and the people began crowding out through the wide doors. 

"Supposing we have a nice little supper, Rosie?” said 
that incomparable Elmer. 

Rosie was feeling quite hungry, having eaten but a 
morsel of bread since her simple luncheon, which she car- 
ried in a bit of brown paper to the store, so she assented 
joyously to the nice little supper, saying prudently, how- 
ever : 

"Do you wish it, Elmer — really and truly wish it?” 

"I certainly do,” said Elmer, smiling. 

So they made their way to Trainor’s restaurant, a resort 
for the more well-to-do and fashionable. Rosie was sur- 


IN WHICH LITTLE ROSIE ATTENDS A PLAY. I43 

prised at the number of people gathered there at so late an 
hour. Elmer, with the air of one well acquainted with the 
place, led the way to the rear, and seated his timid little 
companion in a kind of alcove. Nothing could equal the 
grandeur and grace with which he commanded the waiters 
about. Rosie was enchanted by his magnificence, and sat 
as demure as a kitten, listening to his sparkling conversa- 
tion, admiring him hugely all the time. She ate right 
heartily, too, and was not in the least ashamed of the healthy 
appetite she exhibited. Elmer poured her a glass of wine, 
which she at first firmly refused to touch, but he besought 
her so earnestly, looking at her so entreatingly the while 
with his dear blue eyes that she finally gave way and sipped 
a little of it, and liked it so well that little by little she drank 
it all. Elmer would have refilled her glass, but she de- 
clined with such determination that he desisted in his en- 
deavor. He drank a good deal himself, however, barely 
tasting the food, but pouring glass after glass of the rich 
wine down his handsome throat and calling for more. He 
became proportionately brighter, gayer, and so exceedingly 
droll at times that Rosie was thrown into spasms of 
laughter. Perhaps the rich food, the gay surroundings 
and unaccustomed wine inflamed her somewhat, but cer- 
tainly she became less reserved and more talkative than she 
had ever been in his company. She told of her companions 
at the store, of Murly’s comical little hobbies, of her friends, 
her work, her life at home, her mother and so on, mingling 
the whole in a confused babble wholly charming, because 
of the narrator’s sweet little treble and the arch little airs 
she put on, the flashing of her teeth, and soft, alluring 
glances of her shy, dark eyes. She possessed a thousand 
little coquettish airs and graces which shone forth with 
charming effect in her unwonted animation. Elmer sat 
watching her every arch movement, his eyes eloquent with 
passion. He sprang up abruptly after a time, wholly unable 
to endure the sight with calmness. 

is time to go home, Rosie,” he said, in a husky voice. 

There were still many people gathered around the 
glittering tables, but the character of the gathering had 
somehow changed since their coming. To tell the truth 


144 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Rosie did not like the looks of the young women at all, and 
she shrank away with a feeling of terror at the bold gaze of 
the men. She knew them all, however, and knew them 
for men who were spoken of with bated breath, and little 
giggling shrieks by her girl friends. She recognized sev- 
eral old schoolmates among the young women, her friends 
once, but spoken of now, if at all, in hushed voices at the 
store. She looked up at Elmer in surprise and horror, and 
pressed closer to him as they passed. One or two spoke to 
her, calling her by name, others smiled and waved their 
hands as to a familiar friend. She glanced at the clock over 
the door. It was nearly one. 

'‘Let us hurry, Elmer,’’ she said in an agitated voice. 
"Oh do let us hurry !” 

"Yes, sure Rosie,” he replied. 

But he did not hurry. On the contrary he walked very 
slowly, and despite her feeble protest, fell to devouring her 
little hand with kisses. Rosie) felt a great wave of tender- 
ness come over her, and she pressed closer to him, allowing 
her hand to remain passively within his grasp, thrilling be- 
neath the warmth of his caresses. The street was very dark 
and wholly deserted, but her eyes soon became accustomed 
to the darkness and presently she saw her mother’s little 
white cottage near at hand. 

"Did you have a pleasant evening, Rosie?” asked 
Elmer. 

"Yes, indeed, Elmer,” replied Rosie. 

"We will go again, eh?” 

"But we won’t stay so late, Elmer, next time. If Aunt 
Sadie knew that I was out so late she would be very, very 
sorry.” 

"You are my little girl now, Rosie, aren’t you ? Aren’t 
you my little girl now, Rosie?” 

He repeated the query any number of times, bending 
down the better to see her face. 

"Answer me, Rosie,” he said. "Aren’t you my little 
girl?” 

"I — I don’t know, Elmer.” 

"But you are,” said Elmer, tenderly. "Say you are, 
say it little Rosie.” 


IN WHICH LITTLE ROSIE ATTENDS A PLAY. I45 

''I am, Elmer, ’’ said Rosie. 

They paused at the foot of the lawn, and Rosie, bidding 
him good night, tried to withdraw her hand from his 
embrace. 

“Wait,’' said Elmer, continuing up the walk by her 
side and pausing only at the wide stoop of the veranda, “Eve 
got something for you, my little Rosie.” 

He slipped a ring on her third finger with the words, 
and Rosie, feeling its pressure, cried out in a rapture of joy. 
She could see the glitter of the jewels even in the dark- 
ness, but she thought nothing of that, but of what the ring 
meant, of the sweet avowal that ought to accompany such 
a gift. She looked up at him with shining eyes, her lips 
parted and bosom heaving — waiting. No words came, how- 
ever. Instead he seized her in his arms and kissed her pas- 
sionately, kissed her lips, her cheeks, her eyes and lips again 
with a passion so overwhelming in its fierce intensity that 
Rosie remained breathless and passive in his embrace. But 
recovering after a time she freed herself, pushing him from 
her with both little hands pressing upon his breast, and stood 
back looking up at him waiting for the words. But again 
no words came. Elmer stood regarding her with a smile 
of triumph, but silent, and it suddenly came over the girl 
that he had no intention of speaking, no idea of declaring 
himself, of asking the momentous question she expected, 
and struck with the horror of it all she covered her face with 
her hands and burst into a passion of weeping. 

“Rosie, Rosie,” cried Elmer, putting out his arms, but 
she eluded him and, springing upon the veranda, she went 
into the house, closing the door softly in his very face. 

O God! Was it possible that he thought of her so 
lightly? What had she done to deserve such treatment at 
his hands ? She crept into her little bed, all her pleasure, all 
her joy and happiness gone, feeling that in spite of all her 
humiliation, in spite of her just anger and indignation, that 
she loved him with a passion past all hope of lasting regret. 
She resolved, however, very firmly resolved to break ofif all 
intimacy with him, unless — unless — oh she was weak, very 
weak in her womanly passion ! She had no one to guide 
her, no one to look to, for she felt that she could not reveal 


146 


THE WATTERSONS. 


her secret anguish to friends, however near; she could not 
turn to her mother who hated her, and that mother had 
never taught her to look to God. 


CHAPTER XI. 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS AGAIN MADE HAPPY. 

Elmer had spent four years at college, during which, 
from all that can be learned, he distinguished himself neither 
for mental brilliance nor physical prowess. He was, indeed, 
bright of mind, but so careless and indolent that duller plod- 
ders outstripped him in the end. He took no part in the 
rough and tumble games in which your rugged, manly 
young man takes supreme delight, shrinking with a woman- 
ish fear from the rude usage accompanying such sports. 
Nevertheless, he was a general favorite. There was a cer- 
tain indefinable charm about the young fellow, a winning 
grace, a careless gayety, that captivated those with whom 
he came in contact. He was an especial favorite with 
women. His love escapades came to be spoken of in whisp- 
ers of awed admiration among his associates. With the 
reputation of being the sole son and heir of a multi-million- 
aire with plenty of money in his pocket, which he spent like 
a prince, with a handsome person and an engaging presence, 
he was hailed everywhere and welcomed with open delight 
wherever he chose to go. What wonder that, surrounded by 
constant adulation, fawned upon and flattered, his evil pro- 
pensities pandered to, his peccadilloes winked at, with the 
reputation of a libertine by no means deserved, but which 
he came in the end to consider it his duty to live up to — 
what wonder, I say, that this young man, who was rather 
weak than evil, should return home an idle, good-for-nothing 
scamp with a heart dead to all ennobling emotions and a 
mind debased by false ideas of women, doubting their truth, 
their purity and chastity, and considering all men either 
libertines or hypocrites ! 

'To Mr. Elmer Marblemore: 

"Do not call upon me any more. I do not wish it. Do 
not come to the store again to see me. I return your ring. 


148 THE WATTERSONS. | 

I am very sorry, but your conduct compels me to this step. ' 

''Rose Rosewood.'' I 

Elmer read this little note late on the following day as ; 
he sat at breakfast. He was dining alone, but his mother ‘ 
and Clara were with him in the dining-room. Clara was i 
sitting at a neighboring window with an easel in front of ' 
her, sketching the surrounding scenery and the cold, blue 
sky with its fleecy specks of clouds, bending above it; Mrs. 
Marblemore stood behind the girl, watching the growing 
picture. 

"Very pretty, Clara," she said again and again. 

Clara shrugged her strong shoulders with an air of 
disdain. 

"Come and look, Elmer," said his mother. 

"Presently, Mama," replied Elmer, still busied with his > 
letter. 

He read little Rosie's note half a dozen times, chuckling 
and sputtering with laughter. When he had finished, he 
went lounging about the room, as was his habit, now drop- : 
ping languidly into a chair, now throwing his leg across a , 
stand or table, then stretching himself at full length upon a 
sofa, or leaning indolently against the mantel or a con- I 
venient window, always nervous, restless, discontented. ; 

"What time did you come home last night, Elmer?" | 
asked his mother, smiling fondly at the boy. | 

If she loved him as passionately as of yore she did not 
show it so openly now. His long-continued absences had in 
a measure cured her of the constant yearning to give her 
love expression by eternal caressing. And then he was 
somehow different. He had grown away from her during 
those years. She felt it, but still her eyes followed him 
about faithfully, and his presence in a room with her filled ! 
for the moment the aching void in her heart. 

"It was nearer morning than night. Mama," he replied, 
stretching himself at ease upon a lounge. 

"Where did you go after the play?" 

"Oh, I was around with some friends." 

"Elmer, I'm afraid you are a very naughty boy." 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS AGAIN MADE HAPPY. I49 

‘'Yes, I'm a bad egg, Mama," he replied, bounding up 
and going across the room towards Clara. She showed her- 
self very uneasy while he stood behind her. She compressed 
her lips tightly, wrinkled her brows, and twitched her 
shoulders in a way that evidently disgusted him, for he 
walked away impatiently, making a grimace behind her 
back. He took up his position at some distance from her, 
leaning against a window. 

“How are you getting along with the club, Clara?" he 
asked. 

“Very nicely," she replied, without looking up. “WeVe 
held two meetings now in our new hall, and weVe got over 
thirty members." 

There was little love lost between these two, but they 
had become more friendly of late. Clara's unexpected for- 
bearance had shamed Elmer into decent behavior, and he 
had of late made some overtures towards a more amicable 
understanding. Clara had at first repulsed him, but upon 
Mrs. Marblemore's entreaties, the good-natured girl had 
received his friendly advances at least with toleration, but 
all advances came from him. No doubt Elmer had a pur- 
pose of his own in seeking Clara's friendship, for it would 
be absurd to suppose that the feeling of loathing which she 
had always inspired in him had vanished in a moment. As 
it was, Mrs. Marblemore had to watch them closely to guard 
against the results of the all too frequent outbreaks. 

“Who's President of the club?" asked Elmer, care- 
lessly. 

“Why, Myrtle, to be sure. She organized it. I'm going 
to read a paper at the next meeting. Mama," she added. 

“I suppose it is like the other," said Mrs. Marblemore, 
contemptuously. “You meet only to discuss the shortcom- 
ings of your friends and neighbors." 

“No, no. Mama," said Clara, “our first rule is ‘No 
Gossiping.' " 

. “How can such a rule be enforced among a lot of 
women?" said Elmer, with a sneer. 

“Well, it is enforced," retorted Clara, hotly. 

“Glad to hear it," said Elmer, dryly. 


THE WATTERSONS. 


150 


He came across the room and seated himself upon a 
small round table, with one foot resting upon the floor and 
the other dangling, but bounded up almost immediately, to 
throw himself upon a sofa. 

^'For goodness sake, Elmer,’' said his mother, ^Vhat 
makes you so restless,?” 

'‘I don’t know,” he replied, again rising to ring the 
bell. '‘I’m going down town.” 

"You shouldn’t stay out so late nights, dear. You look 
quite pale, doesn’t he, Clara?” 

"I suppose so,” said Clara, without looking up. 

, Nothing on earth could have angered Elmer more than 
this callous indifference to his personal appearance. He 
was about to burst into some angry words when his mother, 
placing her hand over his mouth, shook her head entreat- 
ingly. 

Jacques, a young mulatto boy, Elmer’s personal 
attendant, came in at the moment, bearing his master’s 
coat and hat. 

"Good-bye, Mama,” he said, kissing her. Then he went 
across and again stationed himself behind Clara, his close 
proximity again producing those uneasy movements in the 
girl. 

"That is very pretty, Clara,” he said. "Good-bye!” 

He remained standing behind her after she had 
answered him. 

"I say. Mama,” he suddenly exclaimed, "why can’t you 
bring some of your friends here of an evening? You are 
always scolding me for staying out, you know.” 

"Surely we can, Clara,” said Mrs. Marblemore, eagerly. 

"You forget. Mama,” said Clara, coldly, "that we can- 
not keep our friends here to entertain him all night, and that 
whatever the hour at which they take their leave he would 
still spend the remainder of the night in carousing.” 

Elmer flushed hotly and made a step forward, almost 
as if he would strike her, but his mother again interposed. 

"Whom would you like, Elmer?” she said, coaxingly. 

"Oh, I don’t care,” he replied, sulkily. 

"The Rosewoods, perhaps,” said Clara, disdainfully. 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS AGAIN MADE HAPPY. I5I 

''By all means/’ said Mrs. Marblemore, quickly, fore- 
stalling Elmer’s angry reply, "if he wishes it.” 

"But I do not wish it,” said Elmer, scowling. "Why 
not ask Aunt Sadie and Myrtle and Mr. Watterson?” 

"And Sherman,” cried Clara, with sudden animation. 
"To be sure!” 

"I suppose we’ll have to include him,” said Elmer, in 
a tone of extreme disgust. 

Clara rose up, and standing before him let her eyes 
slowly wander over him from head to foot and back again. 

"We shall most certainly include him,” she said, em- 
phatically. 

"Hush, Clara 1 Please, Elmer ! Good heavens, what 
unreasonable children 1” cried poor Mrs. Marblemore. "If 
Elmer would rather have them come without Sherman, we 
will wait until some evening when he is away.” 

"But I tell you,” cried Clara, facing her stepmother 
hotly, "I tell you I will not bear it. Unless Sherman comes 
the others shall not come.” 

"You seem to have a very decided predilection for 
Sherman’s society,” sneered Elmer. 

"I have, sir.” 

"And you are not ashamed to own it?” 

"No.” 

"Much good may he do you.” 

"He’s worth a dozen of you,” said Clara, and swept out 
of the room. 

Mrs. Marblemore sank into a chair with a comical ex- 
pression of dismay. 

"Was ever a poor woman so beset?” she cried. "I 
never saw two such hot-headed, irreconcilable young people 
in all my life. Why should you care if she wants Sherman ? 
You don’t mean to marry her, do you?” 

"Well, hardly.” 

"Then why should you object to Sherman?” 

"I don’t,” cried Elmer, suddenly. "Good Lord, no! I 
haven’t the least objection in the world! Heavens, what a 
blind fool I am. I’d give ten years of my life if she would 
marry him.” 

"Well, well,” said Mrs. Marblemore, resignedly. 


152 


THE WATTERSONS. 


I 


Elmer was in high good humor as he sauntered down 
the street towards town, waving a slender cane and smoking 
a cigarette. He presented an elegant appearance, his fine 
figure arrayed in faultless attire, his handsome face as 
smooth as a woman’s, his languid blue eyes blinking lazily 
as he walked and smoked. 

“My gracious ! as dear old Aunt Sadie says,” thus he 
soliloquized. “That -is the very thing. Get him to marry 
Clara and the matter’s settled. Who is there to outclass 
me with Myrtle with him out of the way? No one. Dear, 
pure, sweet Myrtle, I never thought when I came back to 
this hole that there was a woman in the world capable of 
inspiring such a feeling of reverence in me as she has. She's 
a saint, an angel. Aunt Sadie in miniature. Not beautiful 
— no — but — but — there’s something about her that makes a 
fellow feel like hiding his head.” He paused to laugh as 
another matter occurred to him. 

“What a letter ! The dear litttle innocent. God, but 
wasn’t she pretty last night ! No, no, my little darling, we’re 
not done yet. And when we are I’ll turn over a new leaf, 
that’s flat.” 

He nodded a gay greeting to all, smiling as kindly in 
answer to the admiring nod of the laboring man in his rough 
working clothes as to the professional. He was not proud 
nor haughty, but a good-natured, easy-going young fel- 
low and a general favorite. He turned into the office of the 
Clarenceburg Chronicle, in passing tapped Daniel familiarly 
on the head with his cane, and strode gayly into the editorial 
sanctum where Sherman and the General were sitting, each 
at his desk, but facing each other, chatting and smoking. 

“Aha, General !” said Elmer, shaking hands, “you and 
the old boy are at daggers drawn yet, eh?” 

“Ah, my young reprobate,” said the General, cordially. 

He dearly loved a wild, young blood, such as Elmer 
undoubtedly was. Sherman accorded Elmer a friendly 
smile, shaking hands warmly with the young fellow. 

“I say. General, you must let up on the old boy,” said 
Elmer. “Come down on me, why don’t you?” 

“You !” cried the General. “Not wo’th a line. Too 
insignificant a puppy.” 


! 


i 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS AGAIN MADE HAPPY. 1 53 

Elmer laughed. 

''Yo’ want to give up yo’ reckless co’ses, young man/’ 
said the General, sternly, '‘and settle down.” 

'Tm going to. General,” said Elmer, "Eve just been 
making resolutions coming along.” 

"Then begin, suh, by throwing that abominable thing 
away,” said the General, pointing with an expression of 
extreme disgust at the cigarette. “Don’t pollute the presence 
of gentlemen with such poisonous vapahs, suh. Throw it 
away.” 

“There, General,” said Elmer, good-naturedly obeying 
the autocratic old man. 

“Yo’ haven’t succeeded in drawing this boy away from 
Aunt Sadie’s apron strings yet?” said the General, smiling. 

“No,” said Elmer, regarding Sherman with some curi- 
osity. “He’s a funny fellow. Why not come out with me 
some night, Sherman?” 

“Thanks,” replied Sherman, dryly, “I have some self- 
respect.” 

The General roared with laughter, pounding his knee 
with his fist as he did when greatly delighted. Elmer, after 
a moment of indecision, laughed too, but he clearly did 
not like Sherman’s blunt scorn. 

“You would be the better for a little dissipation,” he 
said lightly, “but go your own way.” 

“I propose to,” said Sherman, composedly. 

The General still roared with laughter, beating his knee 
in accompaniment. He liked Elmer’s grace and polish, but 
he liked Sherman’s rough directness more. He admired 
Elmer as a dashing, dissipated lad, but he loved Sherman 
for his rugged purity, the more especially as he saw that 
it proceeded not from a shrinking, cowardly spirit, but from 
a manly devotion to an ideal wrought by the noble example 
of a pure woman and a good man. 

“Elmer, you dog,” said the General, “you’ll come to a 
bad end unless you bring up sha’p.” 

Elmer waved his hand in friendly farewell, and went 
away muttering to himself. 

“Eh, Johnson, old boy,” he said, going into the bank. 
“How do, Ainsworth.” He nodded to various of the young 


154 


THE WATTERSONS. 


and old men in the rear behind the grating, then went into 
the banker’s private office. ‘'Hello, Daddy,” he said, geni- 
ally, “working like a slave as usual, I see?” 

“IVe got to work, you idle scamp,” said the banker, 
smiling broadly, “to keep you in pocket money.” 

“That’s right. Daddy,” said Elmer, approvingly. He 
sat down in a wide arm-chair, but got up immediately in 
his usual restless, nervous fashion, and went walking up 
and down the narrow room. “If there is anything I like to 
see in others, it is an unselfish devotion to duty, and. Daddy, 
you are a model of unselfishness. Do you know. Daddy,” 
continued the droll rogue, throwing a leg across the desk 
and looking down at the banker with his winning smile. 
“Do you know that if I had had my choice of fathers I 
should have chosen you out of all the world? Give you my 
sacred word. You are the right sort. Daddy, and if it will 
afiford you any gratification to hear it, let me tell you that 
I am satisfied with you and I herewith give you my blessing.” 

“Oh, you little rascal,” roared the delighted banker, 
nearly suffocating with laughter, his great red face purpling 
as he lay back in his chair holding his sides. There was a 
titter, too, among the dozen young and old men in the rear. 
“Ainsworth ! Johnson ! Parker !” cried Mr. Marblemore, still 
laughing, “did you hear the dog? He’s satisfied with me, 
and he gives me his blessing ! Haw ! Haw ! Haw !” 

The dozen young and old men in the rear doubled up with 
glee at what their employer manifestly considered a good 
joke. 

“Let me tell you, young man,” said the banker, wiping 
the tears of laughter from his eyes, “that the question is not 
whether you are satisfied with me, but whether I am satisfied 
with you.” 

“Oh, is it?” said Elmer, thoughtfully, “come to think 
of it. Daddy, perhaps there is something in that.” 

“There certainly is, Elmer,” said Mr. Marblemore in 
a graver tone. “When are you coming into the bank?” 

“When you leave it. Daddy,” said Elmer, gayly. “My 
methods of banking are directly opposed to yours. I be- 
lieve in scattering the money; you believe in piling it up, 
so you see we would be clashing all the time. The first thing 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS AGAIN MADE HAPPY. 


155 


I’ll do when I take charge of this institution will be to give 
every one of the poor devils back there a thousand dollars 
and a month’s vacation to spend it in.” 

No doubt the dozen young and old men in the rear 
approved this ingenious idea hugely, but Mr. Marblemore 
frowned. 

''Come, come, Elmer, no fooling about business,” he 

said. 

"Honor bright. Daddy,” said Elmer, negligently. 
"Now tell me, what’s the use of your toiling away like a 
slave here when you’ve got so much?” 

He had thrown himself into the wide arm-chair again 
and with his elbow resting on his knee, he leaned forward, 
regarding the banker thoughtfully. The question evidently 
puzzled that great man. 

"What’s the use?” he said, vaguely, "I’ve got to keep 
on, that’s all.” 

"Wrong, Daddy,” said Elmer, smiling, "you can cut 
it any day.” 

"Well, I like to work.” 

"Too thin. Daddy, really,” said Elmer, laughing. "Is 
there really a man born of woman that likes to work? You 
don't like it. Daddy. You only imagine it. You’ve fallen 
into a rut and you don’t know how to get out of it, that’s 
all. Work, Daddy, is against nature.” 

"Elmer, I don’t know half the time whether you are 
fooling or in earnest,” said Mr. Marblemore. 

Elmer came over to him and threw his arms across the 
banker’s shoulder, hugging him. 

"Upon my soul,” he said in a low voice, "I could almost 
play the woman and kiss you.” 

He bent over him, and for the space of half a minute 
gazed into his stepfather’s heavy featured red face, his 
cheeks flushing slightly, and his eyes moist and soft like an 
affectionate woman’s. Indeed there was much that was 
womanish in this young man. He had the smooth face, the 
physical timidity and the winning grace and charm of the 
woman, and, added to them, the form and features, the 
physical strength and moral weakness of the man — a by no 
means uncommon combination. 


THE WATTERSONS. 


T56 


''I am very much in earnest, Daddy,” he said, throwing 
himself back into his chair, “when I say that I would like 
to have you give up business — at least for a while. Come 
with me, and Mama, and Clara to Europe. What do you 
say? Good Lord, youVe grubbed long enough. Cut it all 
and come. Wedl jaunt about for a couple of years and have 
a royal good time, scattering the coin that you have been 
piling up through all these years.” 

“It won’t do, Elmer,” said the banker, shaking his head. 
“I can't let go. I actually cannot do it. My investments, 
my son, are all ventures. They are colossal. I have in- 
terests in perhaps every State in the Union. I figure in 
every corporation of moment in the country. For twenty 
years I have been venturing, venturing, venturing, not only 
my own possessions but the fortunes of many men who trust 
me. I must stay and look after their interests and my own. 
My investments are all good, while I remain at the helm, 
but the moment I let go — pah ! I couldn't think of such a 
thing !” 

“But you need rest. Daddy. You'll kill yourself work- 
ing.” 

“Nonsense,” laughed the banker, “I'm as strong as a 
horse. I was brought up on a farm, my son, before the 
advent of labor-saving machinery. I worked eighteen hours 
a day beneath the burning sun, in ice and rain and sleet and 
snow, from the time I was eight until my twenty-fifth year ; 
and such work ! You who have been raised on honey, milk 
and kisses’ cannot realize it. Work! I'm used to it. I 
thrive on it. In fact, I don't know what I would do with- 
out it.” 

“You're a funny old boy, all right,” said Elmer, rumi- 
nating. “Well, I don't mean to work as long as I can get 
out of it. Daddy.” 

“Go ahead, you scamp,” said Mr. Marblemore, rub- 
bing his big red hands together. “No doubt you'll tire 
of idleness after a while, and then you'll come to me fast 
enough. Now clear out. I'm head over heels in business, 
and here I've given you an hour of my time.” 

But Elmer gone, the banker at once recollected a matter 
of which he particularly wished to speak, and without 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS AGAIN MADE HAPPY. 1 57 

troubling Johnson, he plunged through the confidential 
man’s little box and into the street, and in his heedless pre- 
cipitation came into violent bodily contact with General 
Hamilton who, as usual absorbed in his newspaper, was 
passing at the moment, oblivious of all the world. The two 
men glared at each other for a moment in a kind of terrible 
silence. 

'‘Well, still! ” said the General, in a savage tone. 

He had dropped his paper to the walk, and with a 
movement of his arm, had thrown back the old-fashioned 
cloak he wore, and now stood clutching his cane, glaring 
beneath pent brows at the banker. 

'T — ,” the latter’s words came with exceeding slowness, 
'T — beg — your — pardon.” 

"Ah !” said the General, and walked on without another 
word or look. Daniel following, picked up the newspaper, 
and hastened after his master, grinning widely at the 
banker as he passed. Mr. Marblemore stood for a moment, 
his bald head gleaming in the sun, looking after the old 
warrior. His expression was decidedly unpleasant. Elmer, 
who had witnessed the encounter, came up laughing. 

"Did you want to ’see me. Daddy?” he said looking 
drolly at the banker. 

"Don’t laugh, Elmer,” said Mr. Marblemore, quietly. 
He led the way into the office again. "I wished to ask you 
something,” he said, rubbing his hands together a little 
nervously. "I’ve noticed your attentions to little Rosie — 
Mrs. Rosewood’s daughter. Now, I don’t want to pry into 
your private affairs — but will you tell me, Elmer, what your 
intentions are with regard to this little girl?” 

Elmer sat silent with an expression that in a woman 
would have been called pouting. 

"I want you to understand distinctly, Elmer,” the 
banker went on, "that any girl — any modest, virtuous girl 
whom you see fit to bring home as your wife will be most 
warmly welcomed by me and by your mother. I do not 
deny that I had other hopes, but I believe in permitting 
young people to follow their own inclinations. I am still 
old-fashioned enough to believe in love.” 

Still Elmer sat silent — pouting. 


158 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''You owe me some confidence, Elmer,’’ said the banker, 
gently. 

"Yes, Daddy, but you shouldn’t think that a fellow is 
going to marry every girl he shows common courtesy to.” 

"Oh, that’s it,” cried the banker, smiling. "We used to 
call it 'keeping company’ thirty years ago. I kept com- 
pany with half a dozen girls before I found the right one. 
Go ahead, my boy. Have your fun and give the girls a good 
time; but don’t let matters go too far. You must always 
consider the girl’s feelings, Elmer. I believe that you are 
a very lovable scamp, and so do not make this little girl un- 
happy. Let her understand from the beginning that you 
have no serious intentions, that you are merely desirous of 
enjoying her society, and when the right man appears, you 
must stand aside. It is hardly necessary for me to say,” he 
added, with a sudden tightening of the lips, "that I do not 
suspect you of designs on this young woman’s virtue.” 

He regarded Elmer with large round eyes of inquiry, 
and smiled in answer to the boy’s reassuring shake of the 
head. 

"That would be too bad, Elmer, a good, pure little girl 
like Rosie. Now clear out, you rogue, and leave me to my 
work.” 

"What a queer old fellow he is,” mused Elmer, as he 
walked into the street. "I believe that much as he loves 
me he’d turn me out neck and crop if he thought that. 
Nevertheless — ” 

He finished the sentence by walking into Murly’s. He 
did not pause at any counter as he had done on the previous 
day, but went straight to Rosie. Rosie stood with a sad, 
wistful expression. She had been very sad and wistful all 
day, thinking of her hopeless but unquenchable love for 
Elmer, and of his passionate kisses of last evening. She 
could talk to no one. She could only think of her little 
romance forever ruined, and brood upon her sorrow. 

Elmer made straight for Rosie’s counter, and from the 
smiling glances of the girls around her, Rosie knew who 
was approaching. She became pale and faint, with a sick- 
ening sinking of the heart, and she leaned, weak and 
quaking, against the shelves behind, looking down. 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS AGAIN MADE HAPPY. 1 59 

^'Rosie/’ said Elmer's soft, sweet voice. ‘'Dear, sweet 
little Rosie, won’t you look at me?” 

She looked at him, blushing deeply, as she thought 
with shame how she had lain in his arms, how he had 
kissed her, and her eager submission to his caresses. The 
girls around looked on curiously, but kept their distance 
like good-hearted little creatures, thinking it a quarrel and 
a possible reconciliation. 

“What have I done, Rosie,” said Elmer, “that you 
should send me such a cruel letter?” 

His voice sounded far, far away to the ears of the en- 
chanted girl, but it was so soft and sweet and kind in its 
alluring pleading, that she bent her head as if to catch its 
slightest sound. 

“Look at me, Rosie. Speak to me, dear little Rosie.” 

She looked at him obediently, but did not speak. His 
delicate pallor was greater than usual and his eyes looked 
moist in their brightness. 

“Did you treat me right, Rosie?” he demanded. “I 
declare my love for you and give you a ring to seal our 
engagement, and without answering me, you run away and 
thi^ morning send me such a cruel letter, and return the 
ring. Did you treat me right, Rosie?” 

“You — said — nothing,” gasped Rosie, in deep agitation. 

“Did not I ? Ah ! you want words ! You do not love 
me. You want words instead of kisses !” 

“No, no, Elmer. No, no.” 

“Was not the ring proof enough? Was not my love 
proof enough ? But you want words, empty words !” 

“Elmer, you are killing me !” 

She stood leaning against the shelves, her face so pale, 
so bloodless and agitated, that Elmer became alarmed. The 
transition from the deepest depths of despair to the utmost 
pinnacle of joy and happiness almost deprived the girl of 
her senses. Ah, he was noble and she was base ! He was 
an angel of purity and she had doubted him ! 

“Forgive me, Elmer,” she said brokenly. 

“Engaged !” said Elmer. “Of course we are ! That is 
what I meant. That is why I gave you the ring. And you 
returned it to me!” 


THE WATTERSONS. 


i6o 

''Elmer, you will break my heart,” said Rosie, im- 
ploringly. 

"I am coming tonight. May I, Rosie?” 

"Yes, Elmer.” 

"And I am going to place this ring on your finger 
again. And I am going to kiss my own little girl as often 
as I wish.” 

Rosie blushed rosily. 

"Am I not?” 

"Yes, Elmer,” she replied, in a very low voice. "Go 
now, Elmer; please, please go.” 

Her bosom was heaving, as with a violent storm. He 
raised his hat with his usual grace, and went away. Rosie 
followed him with devouring eyes, despite the derisive 
giggles rising around her, and when he was entirely gone 
from her sight, she hurried to the rear, and behind a pair 
of portieres she sank upon a cushioned settee and gave 
way to the overpowering emotions that almost burst her 
swollen heart. Oh, God ! how happy she was ! how happy ! 
how happy ! 

She resumed her place behind the counter after a time, 
a radiant creature of beauty and happiness, and smilingly 
received the good-natured chaffing of her companions. 
She neither affirmed nor denied their repeated charges of 
a quarrel and reconciliation, but her altered appearance 
gave ample proof for the inference. 

She went home at the usual hour, and after supper, 
arrayed in her prettiest finery, she quakingly awaited Elmer 
in the tiny parlor. He came, and was very kind and loving. 
He said not a word of marriage, but he placed the ring upon 
her third finger and made her avow her love a hundred 
times, declaring his own passion as often and more fer- 
vently. Rosie owned her love gladly, sweetly, humbly, pas- 
sionately. He held her in his arms all the evening and 
kissed her as he had said he would, as often as he wished, 
and without protest from Rosie. 

"May I tell Mama, Elmer?” asked Rosie. 

"Not just yet, Rosie,” said Elmer. "I must first see 
how things lay at home before our engagement is made 
known. Tell no one.” 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS AGAIN MADE HAPPY. l6l 


She acquiesced humbly, and after a very happy hour 
spent together he went away, compelling her at the last to 
place her arms around his neck and kiss his lips. 


/ 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE ORGANIZATION. 

The history of the political organization of which Mr. 
Watterson was the head dated back fully twenty years. 
When, at the outbreak of the Civil War, young Watterson 
left college to accept a commission as lieutenant in an Illi- 
nois regiment of volunteers, he confidently expected to 
return and resume his studies at the end of two or three 
months. He did not return for nearly five years, most of 
which time he spent in the commissary department, where 
he rose to be brigade quartermaster with the rank of major. 
Only those who have filled similar posts in time of war can 
know the arduous duties of those four terrible years. He 
never spoke of them. He went into the army a serious 
young man of eighteen, he re-entered college a sober young 
man of twenty-three, and hung up his shingle in his native 
town at the age of twenty-seven, graver than ever. 

It was in the beginning of the Grant-Seymour cam- 
paign, and the services of the young lawyer, who was an 
ardent Republican,^ were enlisted in behalf of that party. 
What was more natural than that he should throw himself 
heart and soul into his first political campaign? From 
earliest boyhood he had taken an absorbing interest in 
politics. Great politicians were his heroes ; the lives of men 
eminent in statescraft his favorite study. 

He had dreamed of some day taking an active part in 
affairs of political moment, and, given an opportunity, he 
worked with astonishing vigor and endurance. He made 
the first of his famous whirlwind tours of the State, speak- 
ing in every town and hamlet in it, and between journeys 
found time to found the Clarence County Republican Club, 
an organization whose members were pledged to vote and 
work for the Republican party; and so actively did he 
bestir himself as their leader that, by the end of the cam- 
paign, the Clarence County Republican Club had blossomed 


THE ORGANIZATION. 


163 


into the Illinois State Republican Club, with branches in 
five counties and a membership running into the thousands. 

With victory came the reward, in the form of political 
patronage, both State and Federal. Then it was that the 
young man proved himself a born leader. He wanted noth- 
ing at all for himself, but much, very much, for his friends 
and associates. He was not at all modest in his demands, 
and he was given pretty much all he asked for, and all that 
was given was distributed by him among the most powerful 
and deserving of his confederates. He thus by his aggres- 
sive liberality, no less than by his modest renunciation of all 
personal profit, won their confidence and support for the 
future. He was urged to keep alive the organization 
which he had founded, and which had done such splendid 
work for the party, and with the assistance of large slices of 
political pie he managed to do this so well that by the 
opening of the Grant-Greeley campaign it was firmly lodged 
in a dozen counties, and by the end of that memorable cam- 
paign it had spread over double the number, and was to be 
reckoned with as a power in the State. And Winfield S. 
Watterson was still its leader. Again, he showed ex- 
cellent executive ability in the matter of patronage, de- 
manding much and giving it out with a liberal though a 
discriminating hand, and a princely contempt for personal 
interest that won the admiring regard of all. 

His organization now was firmly established, he was 
hailed as the party leader in the State. His power was 
great and constantly growing. Measures were indeed 
taken to curb him. He was fiercely assailed by the press 
all over the State and bitterly fought, not only by the 
opposing party, but by many leading members of his own, 
but to no avail. Once started, his onward march like a 
torrent was resistless, overwhelming, stopping for nothing 
and at nothing, setting the press at defiance; engulfing 
local leaders and their puny machines or ruthlessly 
crushing them, until presently his organization covered the 
entire State. 

He ruled all conventions, controlled all patronage, and 
he who would go to State or Federal capital as the people’s 
representative must perforce become a member of the 


164 


THE WATTERSONS. 


organization ; and those who at first had most bitterly 
assailed Watterson found it necessary for very self- 
preservation’s sake to join hands with him. Congressmen, 
Judges, Senators — the very Governor of the State — owed 
his political being to the organization. And Winfield 
Scott Watterson at its head was the best-hated and most- 
feared man in the State. He was the organization. His 
power remained for a long time undisputed. 

The succeeding eight or ten years he spent in firmly 
establishing the organization wherever it had found a foot- 
hold. And this was now a very easy matter. The uninter- 
rupted reign of the Republican party in State and Nation 
continued an uninterrupted flow of patronage, and the 
organization, controlling it all, waxed exceedingly strong 
and powerful. After fifteen years of building there fol- 
lowed half a dozen years of solid intrenching, and Boss 
Watterson bent every energy to make the organization un- 
assailable from without; but when he had well-nigh accom- 
plished the task, lo ! there arose tremendous dissensions 
within. During the first years of his leadership Watter- 
son’s modest retirement and renunciation of all personal 
advantage, his manifest zeal in behalf of his followers had 
disarmed all envy, and the absence of individual jealousy 
had prevented any concerted revolt against him, and later, 
when his position waxed stronger and his power was more 
fully recognized, such malcontents as might have disputed 
his leadership in earlier days dared not defy him, for a 
miscarrying of plans meant utter annihilation. But when 
the organization had expanded to its utmost limits and its 
members were in position to enjoy the fruits of their labor; 
when in short, they had become exceedingly fat and greasy 
with prosperity, many became restive, and some few of the 
more venturesome revolted, notably Southgate of Peoria. 

Southgate had been one of the organization’s strongest 
leaders, and had, with Dillingham, done wonders in organi- 
zing its forces in the North, but his demands grew with his 
increasing strength, until in his insolence he even threatened 
Watterson’s pre-eminence. He was a bitter little man, was 
Southgate, personally of little worth, according to Mr. 
Watterson’s reckoning, but with many brainy and unscrupu- 


THE ORGANIZATION. 


165 

lous men behind him, who, disgusted with the incorruptible 
honesty of Boss Watterson, would willingly have deposed 
him in favor of a less scrupulous and more pliable man. 
Now Mr. Watterson's policy had always been one of concil- 
iation. Was there any opposition offered him in any quarter 
by a man worthy of notice, then terms were immediately 
offered and a compromise effected, if possible, and not until 
every possible effort to bring about a reconciliation had 
proved in vain; did the great man reluctantly put forth 
his strength to crush the upstart. Such contests could 
have but one ending: the rebel was effectually silenced, and 
Watterson continued on his way imperturbable and omnipo- 
tent — until Southgate’s revolt. The little man from Peoria 
would accept no terms, nor would he be crushed. Urged on 
by those around him he defied his old time friend and ally 
to his worst, and in the end he broke away from the organ- 
ization which had made him, and set out vigorously to fight 
it. 

And fight it he did, with such vigor and determination 
that four years before the organization had met with the 
first defeat in its history. The State went into the hands of 
the Democrats, and with it all the patronage of the State 
and Nation. Those were trying days to Mr. Watterson, 
not because of Southgate, who merely irritated but did not 
worry him. He believed firmly in that dictum which de- 
clares that 'ho the victors belong the spoils,” the spoils being 
the offices, the patronage, and it grieved him to have so little 
to give to his faithful friends and allies, who, coming from 
all parts of the State, besieged him, a clamorous horde. 

And now the time of battle was again approaching. 
Four years had passed away. Years of tranquility to 
Watterson, but of great activity, too. The organization 
continued intact, and save for the rebellious forces in the 
northern part of the State controlled by Southgate, it pre- 
sented a united front to the enemy. That Southgate would 
be conciliated or efifectually silenced before the struggle 
set in in earnest was the general belief, for notwithstanding 
the Peoria man’s exceeding activity, his public rantings and 
posings, it was not believed that he would be permitted to 
wreck the party’s chances again. He had had his fling and 


i66 


THE WATTERSONS. 


had failed to draw to himself that element which gives 
supremacy to leadership. True, he had won over various 
big leaders. Sommerville of Galesburg had been won by 
glittering promises; Forsythe and Wilmarth, too, had 
ranged themselves by his side and against Watterson, and 
various minor men had gone over to the enemy. With 
many Watterson’s rule had been irksome in the extreme. 
He was far too honest, men said, for a politician, and indeed 
his integrity of character was a stumbling block in the way 
of many of his most loyal followers. He believed firmly 
in the honesty of the organization as a whole. Was it not 
composed of the actual voters of the State, men who like 
himself believed firmly in the principles of the Republican 
party; men of ideals and of incorruptible rectitude? That 
a rascal would now and then creep into a position of public 
trust was to be expected, but such were weeded out as they 
revealed themselves. Many a promising young man of 
weak moral fibre was given his political quietus by a word 
from the Boss, and ever after debarred from public pre- 
ferment — which would in a measure account for South- 
gate’s strength, for all these as a matter of course flocked 
to his standard in the hope of getting something for services 
which were coldly declined by the dominant power. They 
received promises, and in default of anything better they 
contented themselves with these. 

Southgate now held three districts absolutely against 
the regular organization and several others were said to be 
in doubt. All sorts of rumors were afloat. Dillingham was 
said to have been approached by the Peoria man’s emissaries 
and, although nothing tangible had come of it, there were 
those who predicted his ultimate surrender. Every day 
reports came in of wavering leaders ; the newspapers were 
full of rumors and counter rumors to the efifect that a 
scheme was hatching by which Dillingham would join forces 
with the renegade for the purpose of wresting the leadership 
of the regular organization from Watterson — this in the 
face of Dillingham’s repeated visits to Clarenceburg and 
his open friendship for Watterson. Such a coalition was 
possible of course, and if effected it would inevitably mean 
Watterson’s downfall, but no one really believed it probable 


THE ORGANIZATION. 


167 


in spite of newspaper report. Watterson had been killed 
ofif before many times, but always he had come out of the 
confusion with his hand at the helm and those who had 
arrayed themselves against him were never heard of fnore. 
And such, declared the knowing ones, would ultimately be 
Southgate’s fate. 

Southgate in the meantime had gained great newspaper 
notoriety. He rushed into print upon the slightest provoca- 
tion and in strident tones proclaimed himself as the cham- 
pion of the people. He posed as a little St. George and the 
Dragon, and indeed was pictured thus charging down upon 
a monster whose face was the face of Watterson. The big 
man, however, continued quietly on his way paying little 
heed to the Peoria man’s mouthings. He was a silent man ; 
he rarely talked for publication. Newspaper censure did 
not ruffle him a jot. The Democratic press of the State was, 
of course, united against him, while the Republican organs 
were divided in their allegiance, especially in the large cen- 
tres. In the country districts he was exceedingly popular. 
The farmers idolized him, and every country newspaper of 
Republican affiliations stood loyally by him. 

It was an off year in politics and things in consequence 
were rather quiet. Nevertheless, the waiting rooms outside 
Mr. Watterson’s law offices usually were crowded with visi- 
tors. Politicians, large and small, each with his peculiar 
following, came from all parts of the State to report con- 
ditions in their various districts ; newspaper men in search 
of political news flocked hither in varying numbers ; leaders 
of note who called to consult with the Boss; farmers from 
the country around ; curious sightseers ; women with mis- 
sions ; office-seekers and cranks of every kind and caliber. A 
motley throng they shifted about in constantly changing 
groups, smoking big cigars, and spitting profusely, or 
surged through the wide corridor outside and down the 
broad staircase overflowing into the square where they gath- 
ered in knots to discuss the latest developments. The oc- 
casional appearance of a leader of note was the signal for a 
general rush, which ended as a rule in nothing, for the really 
big men were promptly admitted into the inner sanctum 
from whence all others were barred by the ever vigilant 


i68 


THE WATTERSONS. 


secretary. Delaware was a man in a million. No person 
of doubtful aspect, no reporter, no crank with a mission, no 
idlers succeeded in getting past him. 

'‘Anything doing, Delaware?” asked Farraday, a natty 
journalist, who succeeded where others failed in invading 
the secretary's little office. 

“Nothing, Farraday,” replied Delaware, surrendering 
a reluctant hand to the other's greeting. 

He liked the man well enough, but newspaper men were 
his peculiar abhorrence, and Farraday, his favorite among 
a score who daily harrassed him, was the shrewdest by far 
of the lot. A pale, slightly built young fellow, special cor- 
respondent of the Chicago Courier, a glaringly yellow 
newspaper, it is probable that the favoritism shown him by 
the secretary in admitting him to the outer sanctuary arose 
as much from fear as from liking. Farraday had a way of 
nosing out news, which to say the least was disconcerting, 
and Delaware, who loved his Chief, rather went out of his 
way to conciliate this young man whose merry smile and in- 
nocent glasses were oddly at variance with the reputation 
he had acquired as a man whose journalistic effusions had 
made and unmade men of high political aspirations. 

“Dillingham's down, I know,” said Farraday, nodding, 
“and Brockington and Applegate.” 

“Only an informal meeting, Farraday, I assure you.” 

“Many important matters come up for discussion at 
these informal meetings, Delaware,” hinted the journalist. 
“Fd like to be placed where I could overhear what is going- 
on in there,” he added, persuasively. 

“Impossible, Farraday,” replied the secretary, firmly; 
and Farraday, knowing the value of the man's continued 
confidence did not press him. 

He probably would have learned little of real impor- 
tance had he been permitted to overhear the conversation 
within the inner office. There were half a dozen leaders 
there to be sure, but there usually were half a dozen leaders 
with Mr. Watterson. Dillingham was of the number. Jovial 
Dick, red of face, fat and gorgeously attired, who had come 
down from Chicago on business of his own. Applegate, 
too, was there, Dillingham's genial friend and fellow 


THE ORGANIZATION. 


169 


worker, and Brockington of Jacksonville, and one or two 
others, all prosperous looking men, sleek, well fed, as only 
politicians are. They were gathered around a table, com- 
fortably seated in heavy leather-lined chairs, with feet 
cocked high and hats tilted at precarious angles, smoking 
fat cigars, and talking noisily. Mr. Watterson was walking 
up and down with measured tread, his head bent in thought. 
Over in one corner stood a great desk all littered with 
papers. A couple of windows facing the square were 
open top and bottom. 

''He’s all in, I tell you,” Dillingham was saying vehe- 
mently. "He sent Burnett to me only a couple of weeks 
ago, and what do you think his proposition was?” 

"Oflfered you the Senatorship ?” suggested Brockington, 
jocosely. 

"Naw ! He wants that. 'All I want for myself,’ ,he 
says, 'is Senator Ninghtingale’s seat; that’s all! ’ Oh, he’s 
mighty reasonable,” observed Dick, going off into a shout 
of laughter, in which the others joined more or less heartily. 
"Say, Scott,” continued Dick, winking slyly at his merry 
companions, "how’d you like to see little Eddie Southgate 
in the United States Senate, 'representin’ old Illinois?” 

"Bah! what folly!” Mr. Watterson turned away in 
manifest irritation. 

"Well, that’s what he’s aimin’ at all right.” 

"But what was his proposition to you, Dick?” asked 
Brockington. 

"He offered to make me Governor,” replied Dillingham, 
grinning. 

This announcement was received with a roar of laugh- 
ter, which rather sobered Jovial Dick. 

"What’s the matter with you fellers?” he demanded, 
with only half a grin. "Don’t you think I’d fill the bill, eh?” 

"Sure you would, Dick,” replied Brockington, wiping 
the tears of laughter from his eyes. 

"I only wish we had you up at Springfield now,” said 
Osborne. 

"He was jollying you, Dick,” declared Applegate. 

"Not on your life, he wasn’t. He meant every word of 
it. He’s on his last legs I tell you.” 


170 


THE WATTERSONS. 


“But where does Burnett come in on this deal? And 
Summerville and the rest?’' 

“Oh, Burnett 'ud be nominated Lieutenant-Governor. 
He had everything cut and dried. I was to be Governor; 
Southgate himself was to go to the Senate ; Burnett was to 
slip in with me; Summerville was to oust Martindale and 
so on down the line. Brockington there was to be elimi- 
nated entirely — that was the word — eliminated !“ 

Brockington scowled while Dillingham chuckled 
maliciously. 

“How about me?” demanded Applegate. 

“Oh, you were to be my secretary or something,” 
roared Dillingham, pounding with his fist upon the table. 
“I forget just what Osborne was to get, but something at 
the tail end. Anyway, all the old leaders were to be elimi- 
nated — that was his word for cutting your throats — and 
new men put in. Oh, he had things fixed up fine.” 

“And what was your answer?” asked Brockington. 

“Oh, I told him I’d think it over,” replied Dillingham, 
with a broad grin. “No hurry, you know.” 

And again he went off into a shout of laughter at sight 
of the blank faces around him. 

“What do you think of that, Scott ?” asked Brockington, 
turning to Mr. Watterson, who still was pacing to and fro 
with measured tread. “Dick, here, is hobnobbing with 
Southgate, beneath our very noses.” 

Mr. Watterson glanced affectionately at Dick, who was 
lolling back in his chair, watching his Chief through half- 
closed lids. 

“Don’t worry about Dick, Ben,” he said quietly. 

Dillingham’s feet came to the floor with a crash and 
he half started from his chair, but sank back again with a 
laugh. 

“Scott, you’re a wonder,” he said roughly, and there- 
after became morosely silent while the others discussed with 
considerable animation the Peoria man’s insidious practices. 

“Boys,” said Mr. Watterson, coming suddenly to a halt 
beside the table, “Dick is right when he says that Southgate 
has about reached the end of his resources. He looks 
strong, but he is undermined by his own associates. He 


THE ORGANIZATION. 


I7I 

is surrounded by traitors without knowing it. I may tell 
you now that within the past month or so, I have received 
proposals from both Summerville and Forsythe, offering to 
betray their leader into my hands, and all they asked in 
return was recognition on the part of the regular organi- 
zation.’’ 

This bit of news created a good deal of excitement. 
Brockington, Osborne and Applegate discussed it in ani- 
mated undertones. Dillingham smoked in sombre silence. 

''And what answer did you make, Scott?” asked Os- 
borne. 

"None.” 

"I knowed it ! ” cried Dillingham, bringing his fist down 
hard. "I’d ha’ sworn he wouldn’t.” 

"None !” cried Osborne, aghast. 

"Why not?” asked Brockington. 

"I do not treat with traitors,” replied the big man, 
curtly. 

"Hear him !” cried Dick, starting up suddenly and 
gazing across at the Chief in a kind of despair. "Here’s the 
man whose been fightin’ us for years. He’s the cause of us 
losin’ the State last election, and he’s doin’ his damnedest 
right now to ruin our chances next campaign, and along 
come the men behind him and offer to hand the dog over 
to us bound hand and foot, and here — he — Scott refuses to 
deal with ’em because they’re traitors — because, mind you, 
they’re doin’ the very thing that’ll give us a fightin’ chance 
next year ! Oh, I call it hell, that’s what. Scott ought to 
be teachin’ a kindergarten somewhere instead of bein’ in 
politics.” 

"I am sorry, Dick,” Mr. Watterson replied mildly; 
"but I cannot look at it your way. I say nothing against 
these men for going over to Southgate in the first place. 
They had a perfect right to do so, but for them to turn 
upon him now in this traitorous fashion — bah! I’ll have 
nothing to do with them.” 

"But it’s Southgate, man !” cried Dick. "Southgate 
whose been fightin’ us these six years — our bitterest enemy 
— who lost us the State !” 

"It makes no difference,” replied Mr. Watterson. 


172 


THE WATTERSONS. 


“Treachery is treachery, though the betrayed be the blackest 
of traitors himself, and our enemy. I will not countenance 
it. Southgate really is harmless. It is these very men who 
have been using him as a catspaw to do their dirty work. 
You know that, Dick. Long before Summerville broke 
openly with the organization, he was working secretly with 
Southgate.'' 

“These men may be necessary to us, Scott," interposed 
Brockington. 

“Nonsense. All we need is to put up a strong ticket 
and we'll win in a walk. A strong man like John Sagamore 
as candidate will make victory a certainty." 

“Sagamore," snarled Dillingham. “Never! We'll 
never consent to Sagamore." 

“Not Sagamore, Scott," cried Brockington. 

“Anybody but Sagamore," echoed Applegate. 

Osborne, too, shook his head very decidedly. 

“Well, well," said Mr. Watterson, good-humoredly. 
“Think it over. No hurry, you know. Plenty of time before 
the Convention. Who knows but that we’ll have to adopt 
Southgate's idea and nominate our friend Dick after all." 

Delaware came in at this moment with a pile of letters. 

“Now clear out, boys," continued the big man, rubbing 
his hands together briskly. “I've got work to do." 

“Anybody to see me, Delaware?" asked Dick, rising 
and stretching himself with a mighty yawn. 

“Yes, several." 

So Jovial Dick went briskly away, followed by the 
others. Almost with their disappearance came Sherman and 
with him Farraday, who smiled to see Mr. Delaware’s dis- 
comfiture. 

“Don’t blame Delaware, Uncle," cried Sherman, laugh- 
ing. “I stole past the boy with Farraday in tow, while 
Delaware’s back was turned. We fellow-journalists have to 
stand by each other, you know." 

“I don't see, Farraday, why you should persistently 
put yourself to this trouble," Mr. Watterson said, with a 
frown. “You know how useless it is." 

“Trouble, sir, is my long suit," remarked Farraday, 
briskly. “I merely wanted to ask you about a rumor which 


THE ORGANIZATION. 


173 


has got about that Dillingham and Southgate have got to- 
gether on some sort of coalescing proposition which has 
your approval. How about it, Mr. Watterson? Any truth 
in this report?’’ 

''I have nothing to say.” 

^^Oh, come, Mr. Watterson, the merest hint will do. 
Now, I met Dick a moment ago. He was with you quite 
two hours, which means that your relations are as cordial as 
ever? That being the case, either that meeting with South- 
gate never took place or it was held with your knowledge 
and approval ?” 

''Your speculations, Mr. Farraday, are most interest- 
ing,” observed Mr. Watterson, half smiling. "But if you 
will excuse me, I am very busy. You know that if I had 
anything to say I would send for you and the others.” 

'‘There, Farraday, I told you it was of no use,” cried 
Sherman. "Let us be ofif.” 

"Did you wish to see me, Sherman?” asked Mr. Wat- 
terson, while Farraday stood biting his nails. 

"Not particularly. Uncle, I merely wanted to get Far- 
raday’s opinion of some articles of mine and I came up on 
the chance of finding him here.” 

"Oh, I see. Your humorous description of Mrs. Ham- 
mersmith’s reception, eh? And what does Farraday think?” 

"Not my style,” rejoined the natty journalist, brusquely. 
"Language too stilted; allusions out of date. Metaphors 
antiquated.” 

"But this is purposely cast in the Homeric strain.” 

"Maybe so. Fve heard of this Homer fellow, of course, 
but I never just happened to come across any of his stufif 
and so can’t say. But it doesn’t matter. That sort of thing 
won’t do at all these days. If Sherman is trying to fit 
himself for a career in metropolitan journalism he’d better 
drop it. Cut out metaphors; leave humor to the weeklies. 
Make your sentences short and crisp — snappy, you know. 
Write to the point. Make every word count. Be terse, 
be accurate, be concise — be anything but diffuse. Diffuse- 
ness is the unpardonable sin of modern journalism.” 

Sherman laughed good-naturedly. 


174 


THE WATTERSONS. 


0 

chops his sentences up until you’d think they had 
all been put through a mill.” 

''It makes good reading, though,” observed Mr. Wat- 
terson. "I never miss anything of Farraday’s.” 

Farraday flushed up at this. 

"If it only were not so hopelessly wide of the mark,” 
added the big man, broadly smiling. 

"What can you expect,” cried Farraday, throwing out 
his hands, "when the man who of all men is best able to 
nail what is false refuses to speak?” 

"There, Uncle !” cried Sherman, laughing. 

"I guess you are right, Farraday. Well, you may deny 
the report which you say is being circulated to the effect 
that the organization is treating either directly or indirectly 
with Southgate, or with any of Southgate’s associates.” 

"Ah, thanks ! Then Dillingham hasn’t been in con- 
ference with Southgate’s emissaries?” 

"Possibly he has. But the conference was not sought 
by Dillingham, and it led to nothing.” 

"Then Southgate is weakening!” cried Farraday. 

"You may draw your own conclusions,” said Mr. Wat- 
terson, turning to his letters. 

"And your relations with Dick are cordial ? ” 

"Of course; certainly. Dick and I are the best of 
friends. Now, Sherman, if you will clear out, I really must 
get to work.” 

"But about your probable candidate for Governor, Mr. 
Watterson,” cried Farraday, hastily. "Will it be Saga- 
more ?” 

"Man, man, the Convention is still a year away. It is 
too early to say anything.” 

"But just a hint as to your favorite,” urged Farraday. 
"The merest hint — ” 

But Sherman had him by the arm now and was half 
leading, half dragging him to the door, through which they 
disappeared, to the great satisfaction of Mr. Delaware, who 
regarded such unwarranted intrusion upon the privacy of 
his idolized Chief as a species of sacrilege for which mere 
man-made laws reserved no adequate punishment. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


SCATTERING THREADS. 

General Hamilton was in a towering rage. He sat, 
half rising from his chair, glaring across at the wretched 
Ferguson. 

‘T can’t help it. General,” Ferguson was saying, appeal- 
ingly. ''Honest, I can’t.” 

"Who the devil asked you to help it, suh?” roared the 
General. "Did I ever ask you to advertise in the Chronicle? 
Answa’, suh ! ” 

"No, no, can’t a feller — ” 

"Well, what are you snivelling about then? Withdraw, 
suh, I daresay the Chronicle will manage.” 

"It’s not that. General,” said Ferguson, helplessly. "The 
advertisement is increasing my business and helping my 
trade among the farmers away out, and I know by with- 
drawing ril be losing money.” 

"Then why withdraw it?” 

"I can’t tell you. General. Honest, I can’t. All I can 
say is, that I’ll be ruined if I don’t.” 

"How?” 

"I can’t tell you.” 

"Get out of here instantly !” cried the General, bounding 
up in a fury. "What do you mean, suh, by coming to me 
and whining about yo’ business ? What in the devil’s name 
have I to do with yo’ business?” 

"But General—” 

"Don't but General me, suh,” said the General assum- 
ing his bullying attitude, by bending forward with his 
hand on his hip and his angry face within six inches of 
the pale countenance of the terrified little grocer. "You 
decla’ that yo’ advertisement is increasing yo’ business and 
yet you wish to withdraw it to save yo’self from ruin? 
What am I to make of that, suh? Are you trifling with 
me, suh? With me. General David C. Hamilton of Vu’- 
ginia? Speah, suh, and speak quickly.” 


176 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘‘Hold on, General,” cried Ferguson, shrinking back as 
the angry old man’s nervous hand advanced towards his 
collar. “Good Lord, wait. In my business a feller has to 
borrow money sometimes ; it’s all credit, and a feller is 
liable to become involved, and when a feller becomes in- 
volved and is unable to meet his obligations at times, and 
is given to understand by the parties that he’s involved to 
that unless he does so and so they will come down on him — 
why, what’s a feller to do? Me bein’ helpless, bound hand 
and foot ? ” 

“Do? Shoot the pa’ties, suh! Riddle ’em!” 

“But, General—” 

“Don’t but General me 1 ” thundered the irate old war- 
rior. “I won’t have it. Am I to unda’stand, suh, that you 
have become involved to Ma’blemo’ and that Ma’blemo’ 
info’med you that unless you withdrew yo’ stuff from my 
paper — mine ! — he would ruin you ? Am I to unda’stand 
that, suh?” demanded the General, glaring down at the 
wretched Ferguson in unspeakable fury. “Ansua’ ” me 
suh. Am I to unda’stand that? By God! I’ll cane the 
dog! I’ll shoot the scoundrel! Wha’h’s my cane? Sher- 
man ! Daniel ! Wha’h in the devil’s name are you ? My 
cane, Daniel ! My gun ! ” 

Sherman came running in from the press-room to find 
the General striding up and down like a caged lion, abso- 
lutely foaming at the mouth. 

“What is it. General?” cried Sherman, approaching 
him and laying his strong hands on the old man’s shoulders. 
“Please compose yourself. General. The doctor — apo- 
plexy ! ” 

The General struggled to free himself from the boy’s 
grasp, but he, familiar with the fiery old warrior’s out- 
breaks and dreading the oft-predicted result if allowed to 
continue, held him firmly but with the utmost gentleness, 
and succeeded, after much persuasion, in pressing him limp 
and exhausted into his chair. 

“What in thunder have you been telling him ? ” de- 
manded Sherman, facing Ferguson angrily. “Why didn’t 
you come to me if you had any unpleasant business ? ” 

“But I had no idea he’d take it like this,” said Fergu- 


SCATTERING THREADS. 1 77 

son, aghast. “I only wanted to withdraw my advertise- 
ment.’' 

The General motioned Sherman to stand aside, ‘and 
after two or three ineffectual attempts to speak he managed 
to stammer out, ^‘Tell me about it.” 

''But there’s nothing to tell,” said poor Ferguson. 

It looked for a moment as if the General would break 
out afresh. He swelled up visibly, turning purple, but his 
strength was spent. 

"Now, General, don’t get into a passion again,” said 
Sherman, patting him affectionately on the knee. "You 
know what the doctor says.” 

"Damn the doctoh, suh ! ” the General gasped out. 

"All right ; damn him, by all means,” said Sherman 
smiling; "only do it coolly. Tell me about it, Ferguson.” 

"Did you say that Ma’blemo’ — ?” interrupted the 
General. 

"I didn’t say a single solitary thing about Marblemore,” 
cried Ferguson indignantly ; "not a single solitary thing. 
I didn’t mention his name once. Can’t a feller be involved 
without a feller being involved to Marblemore?” 

"Of whom ’did you borrow money, suh?” 

"Of Marblemore. But wait. General ; don’t go off and 
come at a feller that way! My notes are all in Gorman’s 
hands — Gorman’s and Armstrong’s. Marblemore ain’t got 
nothing to do with it.” 

"They are Ma’blemo’s lawyers, suh?” 

"They are not; Watterson, Bloomfield and Harrington 
are Marblemore’s lawyers. You ought to know that. Gen- 
eral. Didn’t they engineer the new reservoir scheme 
through — at least Bloomfield did. You’d know that if you’d 
stop to think a bit, instead of going off and coming at a 
feller that way. Gorman and Armstrong got hold of my 
notes in the way of business.” 

"Bankers don’t sell or trade good papah, and yo’s is 
good.” 

"It is,” said Ferguson with pride. "But they got hold 
of it some way.” 

"Then by God ! ” cried the General starting up^ "I’ll 
make ’em tell me how it came into tha’h hands ! ” 


178 


THE WATTERSONS. 


“Now, General, don’t be overhasty,” said Sherman. 
“Give me a chance to learn something more about it.” 

• “Why — why — why these scoundrels info’med Fe’guson 
that unless he’d instantly withdraw his advertisement from 
the Chronicle they’d ruin him.” 

“They did nothing of the kind,” cried Ferguson, thor- 
oughly exasperated. “Good Lord ! Can’t a feller make a 
statement without having different words put in a feller’s 
mouth ? ” 

“What did you say, Ferguson?” said Sherman laugh- 
ing at Ferguson’s indignation and the General’s air of stupe- 
faction as they stood regarding each other. “Come, tell 
me.” 

“I had become involved to a considerable extent, and 
this Gorman comes to me and tells me that he and his 
partner had become possessed of my notes. They were due, 
but I could have all the time I wanted if Fd agree to adver- 
tise exclusively in the Globe, in which they were finan- 
cially interested. There wasn’t nothing said about the 
Chronicle, and nothing about Marblemore, neither. I can’t 
meet the notes because times are hard and money’s tight. 
I can’t collect my outstanding accounts, and so I agreed. 
And then I came to tell the General about it, and he goes 
off and comes at a feller like a wild man.” 

The General and Sherman exchanged glances of intel- 
ligence. 

“That’s all right, Ferguson,” said Sherman. “You are 
at liberty to withdraw at any time. The General’s anger 
was not directed at you, but at the men who are at the 
bottom of this thing.” 

“No hard feelings. General,” said Ferguson in a con- 
ciliatory tone as he took up his hat. 

“Get to the devil out of here,” growled the General, 
“or ril pu’fo’ate you.” 

Ferguson with an ingratiating smile backed hastily 
out of the room. 

“Well, it’s pretty much as I told you, boy,” said the 
General. “All this advertising matta’ that is leaving us is 
the result of Ma’blemo’s unda’handed work. He intimi- 
dates Fe’guson, coerces Mu’ly, invests in Hennery’s, gets 


SCATTERING THREADS. 


179 


complete possession of Dougherty's mills, interests Maple- 
son in his own ventchas and so gets hold of him, and so on 
He’s taken a dozen heavy advertisers away from us by one 
means or anotha in the last five or six months. Oh, I’ll 
have to riddle that fellow yet. I can see that. I’ll have to 
do it ! ” 

''Don’t talk nonsense. General. The day of shooting is 
past.” 

"Then I’ll revive it, suh.” 

"No, you won’t. General,” said the boy coolly. 

"You are an impudent young puppy, suh,” replied the 
General, scowling. 

He was still breathing hard from his recent outbreak. 

"This infu’nal tempah of mine will be the death of me 
yet,” he said, with a groan. "Look at that ! ” He held up a 
late issue of the Chronicle, pointing out the wide borders 
of the sheet which in former times had been one solid mass 
of advertisements, but which now were filled with printed 
matter, sketches and the like, clipped bodily from exchanges. 
"Do you see that? Advertisements all gone; subscriptions 
going. He wo’ks his vengeance swiftly and surely. I ad- 
mire the man with it all. It shows why he made millions 
of dollahs in twenty years, sta’ting with nothing but his 
bare hands and his brains. That’s it. The man’s got 
brains. Only his brains are devoted to money-making. 
He’s a human tumble-bug. That’s what makes the man so 
vulgah. Whenever you see a brainy man devote himself 
wholly to money-making, depend upon it he’s vulgah. He’d 
rob yo’ hen-roost under dififerent su’cumstances, suh; he’d 
beat his wife; he’d associate with nigras, suh.” 

"But still and all. General,” mused Sherman, "we have 
no positive proof that this is Marblemore’s doing.” 

The General gave him a glance of pity. 

"Sherman,” he said gravely, "if I didn’t love you. I’d ' 
kick you into the street.” 

"Perhaps the paper is losing its old prestige.” 

"It is, it is,” replied General Hamilton sadly. "I don’t 
know what the wo’ld is coming to. Time was when I dic- 
tated to the entire county. No man ever was nominated on 
the Democratic ticket — aye, or on the Republican — without 


i8o 


THE WATTERSONS. 


my consent or tolu’ance. But now ! Yes, the Chronicle is 
dying; its editoh is in the sere and yellow leaf/’ 

He sat for a while in deep despondency. Sherman 
remained silent regarding his old friend compassionately. 

He had long ago observed the paper’s decline and had 
eagerly hoped to stay its fall by his own efforts, had fondly 
fancied that his effusions would renew the blood in the 
fast-decaying journal. But no. His work did not appeal 
to the remnant of the class of which the General was the 
idol and prophet. 

The General was an iconoclast, an irreconcilable, illogi- 
cal, unreasoning thunderer, and the rising generation cared 
nothing for that sort of thing. Old-timers were dying off, 
and the old warrior’s powers were failing him slowly but 
surely. 

And to this was added the enmity of the all-powerful ' 
banker. Mr. Marblemore had in one way or another 
attached to him every business man of importance in Clar- 
enceburg. He was an open-handed, generous man, always 
willing to assist a neighbor in difficulties, and in this way 
he had through the years won the gratitude of many. More 
were financially interested in his multifarious schemes and 
others were bound to him in a business way — were in his 
power, so to speak. Such a man would experience little 
difficulty in gaining unlimited support in any scheme in 
which he saw fit to engage, whether for the making or the 
ruining of a given man. 

So it was, that at his nod, one merchant after another 
withdrew his patronage from the old Chronicle, assigning 
dull times, poor business and a necessary curtailment of 
expenses as causes for withdrawal. Not alone in the loss 
of advertisements did the Chronicle suffer; its circulation 
fell off alarmingly. An almost defunct newspaper, the 
Globe, suddenly took on new life, and by means of a lessen- 
ing of rates, and the addition of many new and attractive 
features, took from its old and antiquated rival many 
readers and subscribers. That all this was due to the 
machinations of the mighty banker the General did not 
doubt, although nothing ever appeared on the surface to 
warrant such an assumption. 


SCATTERING THREADS. l8l 

''General/’ said Sherman, "better let up on Marble- 
more.” 

"What, suh ! ” roared the old warrior, bristling with 
rage. "Do you dare insult me ! ” 

"By no means. General, but you know IVe always been 
in favor of the street railway. It’s bound to come. The 
people want it; they’re bound to have it some day. Our 
stand has hurt us a good deal.” 

"Bah, nonsense, suh ! ” 

"Oh, all right. But I say you’re wrong.” 

Notwithstanding their frequent disputes arising out 
of differences of opinion, General Hamilton had come to 
rely greatly upon Sherman. He gave the boy more and 
more latitude as he grew in power and poise, and though 
he found it necessary to exercise a mild supervision always, 
for Sherman was chock-full of mad whims and fancies, he 
never in the smallest degree sought to curb him in freedom 
of expression, having a theory born of long experience that 
such curbing would ruin all that was promising in the lad. 
He even permitted his pupil to express opinions on politics 
diametrically opposed to his own. The General was a 
democrat in theory only ; at heart he was an aristocrat, pure 
and simple. Sherman was democratic to the core, and 
fond of expressing in print his theories on life and society. 
He was not given to the General’s luridness of language; 
however extravagant the thought, it was ever clothed in 
mild and agreeable phrases, which he labored to make as 
elegant and as polished as possible. 

About this time his crusade against the fashionable fol- 
lies of a certain local coterie was in full swing. For long 
he had endured in silence the absurd social doings going on 
around about him. It was rather funny at first, and Sher- 
man enjoyed the spectacle equally with the General and 
laughed in hearty sympathy with the unholy glee with which 
the old warrior watched the awkward antics , of these am- 
bitious ladies. But to laughter succeeded contempt and 
strong disgust. It was really too ridiculous, the sight of a 
fat and blowsey dame whose proper sphere was the kitchen, 
simpering her way through a "Reception” or a "Soiree,” 
and Sherman set himself seriously to grapple with this evil. 


THE WATTERSONS. 


182 

which was so utterly at variance with the real, underlying 
simplicity of the life and of the spirit that pervaded it. The 
columns of the Chronicle furnished him the necessary me- 
dium through which to launch his shafts of ridicule and 
satire. The General, who had long since exhausted himself 
in thundering tirades without working the least good, gave 
his youthful associate the fullest license, and so from week 
to week, in a column especially devoted to the purpose, the 
elite of Clarenceburg were held up to public ridicule. The 
leaders of the craze, under various thinly disguised names, 
were humorously castigated, their pretensions derided, their 
affairs ridiculed without mercy and without end. Under 
pretense of describing the social functions of the week, our 
intrepid young editor reveled in humorous little digs and 
satirical flings directed at the more prominent devotees of 
fashion. The Hammersmiths, the Thompsons, the Millers 
and the Markhams, all came in for a share of his attention. 
There was nothing very savage in these attacks, nothing 
nearly so ferocious as General Hamilton’s furious on- 
slaughts, but the thing hurt. The gentle raillery, ofttimes 
disguised beneath a grave assumption of solemn interest, 
wounded grievously. Aunt Sadie held up her hands in 
horrified expostulation at the laceration of her friends, 
though she could not help laughing over her darling boy’s 
fun. Mr. Watterson rumbled with laughter at various little 
descriptive touches; the General, highly elated over his 
youthful protege’s success, encouraged him to renewed en- 
deavors. The thing attracted wide-spread attention. The 
good folk of Clarenceburg at first smiled, then laughed, then 
became ashamed and angry. 

The men were, of course, the first to awaken to the real 
meaning of these social performances which for so long 
had yielded only amusement to the citizens at large. Busied 
with his own more important affairs, always indulgent and 
carelessly tolerant, the husband asked only for peace and 
quiet. Given his slippers and old worn coat, his pipe and 
newspaper he bothered his head little about the doings of his 
women-folk. He was making money hand over fist and with 
his natural love of the luxuries of life he willingly yielded 
his consent to all kinds of costly improvements in his sur- 


SCATTERING THREADS. 


183 


roundings, and good-humoredly subscribed to the increased 
cost of maintenance the new standard of living entailed; 
and so step by step imperceptibly the thing had grown. 

The mania for building inaugurated by the erection of 
the gorgeous Marblemore mansion did strike rather hard, 
but after some grumbling and growling. Paterfamilias fol- 
lowed the fashion in this as in lesser things, and long rows 
of beautiful houses sprang up as a result, each more gor- 
geous and fantastic than its neighbor. Then as a natural se- 
quence had come the servants and the other tomfoolery, 
matters all well enough in a community whose society has 
long been formed and polished, but ridiculously out of place 
in rude, crude Clarenceburg. 

When matters had reached this pass Paterfamilias be- 
gan to rub his eyes and stare and grin as at a circus. It 
was most amusing to see the once simple and unassuming 
partner of his joys and sorrows queening it awkwardly in 
the parlor. It was not unpleasant to have a servant or two 
about, he liked a glass of wine at table, he submitted to 
luncheon at noon and dinner in the evening, and but faintly 
objected to donning evening dress. In a word he had re- 
signed himself to the new conditions and had even come to 
take a kind of pleasure in the thing, when Sherman's blis- 
tering gibes and riotous merriment opened his eyes to 
the folly into which he was drifting. Then he put his foot 
down, and at once there was a change. In many households 
the servants disappeared entirely, others were reduced in 
numbers and the ladies who had queened it so long in the 
parlor returned good-humoredly to the kitchen, not sorry, 
perhaps, that the play was over, and very well pleased with 
what they had gained. 

Not that all resigned themselves. Mrs. Hammersmith 
very properly clung to her butler, and Mrs. Thompson con- 
tinued to walk abroad with her nose high in the air as of 
yore, but even they were sadly obliged to acknowledge the 
force of public opinion when the Great Marblemore, in 
deference to the storm of ridicule aroused by Sherman's 
humorous warfare actually reduced the footing of his estab- 
lishment, though this was perhaps du*e rather to Mrs. Mar- 
blemore’s taking advantage of her opportunity, than to any 


184 


THE WATTERSONS. 


yielding on the banker’s part. In his case, moreover, despite 
the great lengths to which he carried his love of ostentatious 
display, the effect had. not been so noticeably ridiculous, both 
by reason of his vast wealth, which enabled him to live in 
all things in conformity with the standard which he chose 
to set himself, and because in Mrs. Marblemore he possessed 
a lady who bore herself in the midst of her surroundings 
with the calm repose and ease and graceful dignity of one 
to the manner born. 

These momentous changes told here in a few words 
were not brought about in a moment. On the contrary, 
Sherman labored for many, weeks ere any perceptible effect 
began to be felt ; indeed, it was not until the journals of 
neighboring cities had fallen into line, and, catching the 
spirit of the thing, had formed themselves into an uproarious 
chorus from week to week, that Clarenceburg was 
thoroughly aroused. The uproar for a time was prodigious, 
for your hard-headed citizen when once aroused is apt to 
go to extremes, and Sherman’s purpose was not to return 
to old conditions, but merely to do away with what was 
absurd in the new. He very much approved of evening dress 
for example; had no objection to calling his midday meal 
luncheon, nor to partaking sumptuously of dinner at seven. 
And so he labored away, counseling the retention of the 
butler and the cook, but strenuously declaring against the 
liveries and the genuflections. Things settled down by 
degrees ; those good dames, who during his campaign had 
frowned upon him, began to smile once more, and Sherman 
presently renewed the discussion of his beloved theories 
with something of his old time enthusiasm. 

But while thus virtuously employed in building up a 
reputation as a writer of pith and purpose, the matter which 
he had nearest of all at heart was not prospering as he 
could have wished. His love for Myrtle was both deep and 
lasting, and only failed of burning intensity because of all 
absence of serious rivalry or opposition. Myrtle pursued 
the even tenor of her way to all appearances contented and 
happy. She replied to his passionate glances with looks 
equally tender, she returned the pressure of his hand when 
he demanded such token of understanding, conversed with 


4 


SCATTERING THREADS. 1 85 

him of an evening in the parlor where they spent many 
happy hours alone together, she listened with smiling eyes to 
his words of love and accepted his homage as tranquilly 
as if it were hers by right of being. She was quietly 
afifectionate, nothing more. And this did not suit Sherman 
at all. He was a turbulent youth, full of vim and force and 
fire. He loved action and thought it no more than his right 
to be permitted occasionally to take his sweetheart in his 
arms and so enliven those evening hours, which now were 
nothing more than a tantalizing shadow of what might have 
been. But Myrtle, while she did not hold him at arm’s 
length, would not brook presumption. Not that she ever 
had occasion to rebuke her too-adoring suitor, but her 
manner to him, sweet and tender always, was yet per- 
meated by a quiet and gentle dignity which, while it for- 
bade all familiarity, yet charmed his youthful senses and 
made him more in love than ever. 

And so time passed on tranquil wings and might con- 
tinue so to pass for aught Sherman knew for years to come. 
It was rather late in the summer when, all of a sudden, he 
awoke to a new element of danger, namely, the existence 
of an unsuspected rival whose presence filled him with 
scorn and indignation. The disturbing element was no less 
a personage than Elmer. That elegant young gentleman still 
continued idle, pursuing his profligate courses in a manner 
quite open and unashamed. Of late he had fallen into the 
habit of dropping into the old grey mansion of an evening, 
where he usually spent an hour or two, for the most part in 
Myrtle’s company. 

Myrtle received him as a friend, and Sherman, however 
much he chafed, could not but see that his dear girl was en- 
tirely innocent of any deeper feeling. Indeed, so far was 
she from suspecting Elmer’s real motive in calling, that she 
firmly believed him betrothed to little Rosie, who as often as 
not was present at these evening parties, and never was per- 
mitted to walk home unattended when Elmer was of the 
company. Sherman was a good deal puzzled to account for 
Elmer’s conduct here. He was himself so loyal and devoted 
to the idol of his heart that Elmer’s evident double dealing 
was incomprehensible to him. What was he up to? Was 


i86 


THE WATTERSONS. 


he tiring of little Rosie thus early? The little maid did not 
look as sunnily happy and cheerful as usual, he thought. 
He cursed the cheeky young fellow’s impudence, but took 
excellent care not to dignify these overt attentions by the 
slightest notice, hostile or otherwise. 

One day at an hour somewhat past noon, Sherman was 
walking arm in arm with Myrtle on that fashionable thor- 
oughfare whereon stood the Watterson homestead. The 
sky was overcast with fleecy clouds through which the sun 
looked pale and cold, like a new moon environed by choking 
vapors. The gorgeous mansions lining the streets, with 
their innumerable turrets, towers, balconies and verandas, 
all piled one above another in the most fantastic manner, 
gave to the scene an aspect which if a trifle garish at first 
blush, was yet very beautiful, softened as was the whole by 
the still green freshness of the lawns and the foliage. The 
windows were all embellished within with snowy curtains ; 
the walks curving and curling around the houses gleamed 
whitely on the lawns. Everything was neat and clean and 
sparkling. 

'T’m glad summer is past,” said Myrtle, presently. 

'T’m not,” replied Sherman. ''You’ll never go driving 
in the winter, nor riding.” 

"But we take long walks,” cried Myrtle, laughing. "I 
think walking is much nicer.” 

She looked somewhat pale but exceedingly cheerful. 
It was one of her infrequent periods of depression ; she could 
not work, and so like a sensible girl, she was spending the 
day with her lover. They had driven far across the prairies 
that morning, and returning had alighted at General Hamil- 
ton’s headquarters, where they had lunched, spending an 
hour or two in cheerful conversation with their host, from 
whom they parted in the highest spirits. 

"There’s Mrs. Ringrose at the window,” said Myrtle, 
waving her hand in greeting to that little woman as they 
passed the parsonage. 

"Seems in rather low spirits,” observed Sherman. "I 
wonder where her husband is gallivanting about ?” 

'‘Why, Sherman !” cried Myrtle, extremely shocked and 
indignant. "You should not speak that way of a minister.” 


SCATTERING THREADS. 


187 


''Bah growled the unrepentant youngster. "A 
whining hypocrite ! Always cringing and wheedling and 
flattering. You know he is, Myrtle.” 

"1 know nothing of the kind, sir. I think he’s nice. 
I do,” said Myrtle, stoutly. "You think there is nobody like 
Father Fargo.” 

"There isn’t; not in the ministry. We’re going hunting 
next week. Quail season opens. Great sport !” 

"What good does it do you to go hunting?” asked 
Myrtle, scofflngly. "You never bring anything home. 
Father Fargo says you kill nothing but gophers ; you al- 
ways miss, he says, when you shoot at prairie chickens, or at 
a rabbit; and he declares you miss purposely.” 

"He’s jealous,” declared Sherman, waving him away. 

"I believe him,” announced Myrtle, nodding. "It’s my 
opinion that you are too tender-hearted to kill anything 
Sherman.” 

- "Pooh ! Pooh !” cried Sherman, with a gesture im- 
plying great ruthlessness. "Fact is, I couldn’t hit a barn if 
I were locked inside.” 

"A story ! ” cried Myrtle. "You simply can’t bear to 
hurt anything. I’m afraid, Sherman, any one would have 
fared badly with you in the old pioneer days.” 

"There’s where you are mistaken. Myrtle,” cried Sher- 
man, throwing out his chest, and looking big at a passing 
urchin, who shrank away in some alarm. "I’ll bet I would 
have been a mighty hunter in those days. Supposing, 
Myrtle,” he continued suddenly, lowering his voice, "sup- 
posing things were so — that there was a great hunting 
ground a few hundred miles west of here, and I going there 
to stake out a claim as many and many a better young fellow 
did a few years back ; and supposing you were at home here 
with your father, as now, having everything a going, and — 
and, supposing Myrtle I — asked — you — to — ” he paused 
here, feeling the issue too momentous to go on. 

Myrtle looked down demurely. 

"What, Sherman?” she asked. 

"To — go — with — me!” he replied, very low. "Would 
you be afraid to trust yourself to me. Myrtle? Would you?” 

"Among the Indians and all,” said Myrtle, softly. 


THE WATTERSONS. 


l88 


She was dallying as it were with her own emotions 
which at that moment were very sweet and tender. She 
knew, of course, of Sherman’s love for her, although he had 
not yet ventured upon an absolute declaration. She knew, 
too, that she returned that love with all her heart and soul, 
but, oh, she did not mean to marry for years to come. The 
Cause needed her and she would devote herself to the 
Cause. Love could wait. In the meantime this hovering 
so to speak on the brink of the pool of passion was very, 
very sweet — all the sweeter because a trifle dangerous to her 
fixed purpose ; so she smiled and looked into his ardent eyes 
with coquettish glances. 

'‘Would you. Myrtle?” whispered Sherman, insistently. 

"Gladly,” she replied, giving him a glance that seemed 
a glimpse of heaven. "Hush !” she added. "Somebody is 
calling us.” 

And indeed Sherman heard his name called at that 
moment, and turning around, he beheld Aunt Sadie on 
foot hastening after them. 

"I was with Mrs. Ringrose when you passed,” explained 
the good lady, coming up panting. "And where are you 
going, my dears?” 

"Home,” replied Myrtle. "We’ve been everywhere and 
I feel ever so much better. We stopped at General Hamil- 
ton’s and Benjamin took the horses home. The country is 
beautiful. Auntie; don’t you wish you had come along?” 

"I am so busy, my love. I’m calling on Mary now; 
won’t you come along? Mary will be so pleased!” 

To be sure would they. So they took Aunt Sadie be- 
tween them, and walking three abreast, they proceeded town- 
ward, recounting in detail the glories of the morning, while 
Aunt Sadie in return told of her day which she as usual had 
spent among her ailing friends. They found Mrs. Marble- 
more at home entertaining various visitors. Mrs. Thompson 
was there and Mrs. Hammersmith and Mrs. Ferguson and 
Mrs. Markham, Aunt Sadie’s dearest friends and neighbors, 
who, forming a group about their hostess, were chatting 
quietly. 

Clara, too, was there, and Elmer joined them so 
promptly in the small drawing room that he must surely 


SCATTERING THREADS. 


189 


have observed their arrival. The younger people drawing 
somewhat apart from the elder dames, as young people will, 
conversed in undertones. 

Elmer engaged Myrtle in conversation, and Clara quite 
monopolized Sherman, who sitting beside the blooming girl 
fell to wondering why he could not like her. He liked all 
the girls he knew with the sole exception of Clara. With 
all his love for Myrtle he could have found it in his heart 
to kiss little Rosie, for example, or madcap Fanny, or 
dainty little Daisy, but he could by no stretch of imagination 
conceive himself as willingly embracing Clara. Why was 
this? She was more than pretty — beautiful in her robust 
womanhood; she was full of good nature; she was kind 
and gentle ; she had many admirers among the young men 
of the town. Then why was this young woman so repulsive 
to him ? The fault must lie with him. He tried to like her, 
but irritated by her open and persistent pursuit of him — 
why, that was it ! Her boldness it was that repelled him ! 
Sherman quite colored up and smiled as the solution of the 
vexing problem burst upon him, and Clara taking the blush 
and smile as her own bent towards him, placing her plump 
white hand on his arm. 

“I like to see you smile like that, Sherman,’’ she said 
softly. 

‘'Do you?” replied Sherman, frowning instantly. 

'Tt lights up your face wonderfully. You look so 
serious always. What are you always thinking about?” 

"Oh, I don’t know — one thing or another.” 

"Do you ever think of me?” asked Clara, archly. 

"Sometimes.” 

"I won’t ask you what you think, but I hope it’s some- 
thing nice. Would you like to see my pictures?” 

"I don’t care if I do,” replied Sherman, glancing at 
Myrtle and Elmer. He did not like to leave his sweetheart 
alone with Elmer, but there was no help for it, so muttering 
an inward curse on his infernal luck the ill-conditioned cub 
rose and went with Clara. 

Myrtle remained behind with Elmer. He was sitting 
very quietly for him, talking. Myrtle listened with an air 


190 


THE WATTERSONS. 


of abstraction, her eyes fixed upon Sherman, as he wandered 
here and there with Clara. 

'Tve been reading your articles right along. Myrtle,’’ 
said Elmer. 

'‘Have you, indeed. I wouldn’t have thought that such 
matters would interest you.” 

"But they do. Everything you do interests me,” said 
Elmer, with great earnestness. 

Myrtle rather opened her eyes at this, but she said 
nothing. 

"We used to be good friends years ago. Myrtle.” 

"I am not sure. I was dreadfully afraid of you I 
know, and always trembled when I met you.” 

"I was mean I know. I was always teasing you, but you 
don’t think of that now?” 

"No.” 

"I’m not naturally mean. Myrtle. Do you think I am?” 

"Why, no,” said Myrtle, wondering a little at his 
earnestness of manner. 

"A little wild, perhaps ? ” he said with a smile. 

He had an idea that his wildness rather recommended 
him to the good graces of women in general — an idea borne 
out probably by his experience with certain dowager dames 
of the city, who would gladly have given their daughters 
to this graceless, but wealthy young man. 

"I don’t know,” replied Myrtle in a constrained tone 
of voice. 

She knew, of course, of his doings. Clara talked of 
him a great deal and dwelt by preference on his general 
depravity, his nightly outings, his fondness for wine and the 
society of women of doubtful morals. Indeed it was a 
matter of general repute, and Myrtle always thought of 
Sherman with a deeper tenderness whenever she thought 
of Elmer. 

"I’m going to work,” said Elmer. He looked down 
at her as if he expected to see her overcome with astonish- 
ment and joy at this announcement, but was deeply cha- 
grined to find that his resolution scarcely evoked any in- 
terest at all. 


SCATTERING THREADS. I9I 

“Yes, I’m going to turn over a new leaf,’' he continued. 
“I’m tired of idleness. I’m tired of everything.” 

The poor fellow looked it. His pale face was thin and 
haggard, dark rings had formed around his eyes, and there 
was a twitching of the corners of his mouth and eyes not 
at all pleasant to witness. But he looked very handsome, 
nevertheless. 

“Everybody ought to work,” he said, “don’t you think 

so?” 

“Yes. I do think so.” 

“That’s what I gathered from your writings and that 
is why I have determined to quit this idle life.” 

Again he looked at her to see what gratification, if 
any, his resolution, founded upon her expressed opinion, 
afforded her. She was regarding him thoughtfully, and 
greatly pleased he went on. 

“My father’s business burdens are getting too many for 
him. He wishes me to take some of them off his shoulders 
and I have determined to do so.” The thing evidently ap- 
pealed to him in the light of the heroic. “It will be rather 
hard on me — the confinement, I mean, and the application. 
I would not mind that, however, if my friends — if you. 
Myrtle, took enough interest in me to wish me well and to 
think of me sometimes.” 

He concluded in a low voice, looking at her with his 
sweet winning smile. 

“I am sure that your friends will wish you well, Elmer,” 
said Myrtle. 

“Will you. Myrtle?” 

“Surely.” 

Clara called Myrtle at this moment and she rose to 
go to her friend who stood near a neighboring window hold- 
ing a small picture in her hand, the center of a group formed 
by all the ladies present. The picture was an excellent like- 
ness of herself, showing her clad in the habiliments she 
wore when going through her athletic exercises. It was a 
dress designed rather for comfort and ease than for grace 
and beauty, consisting of a loose blousey waist and baggy 
breeches reaching to the knees. Her strong, round arms 
were bare to the elbow and her low-cut bodice, half con- 


192 


THE WATTERSONS. 


cealed, half revealed her breast and shoulders. The picture i 
had just been handed her by a servant, and her cry had I 
.brought the others around her. Sherman seized the oppor- I 
tunity thus afforded to make his escape. ' 

The ladies fell to discussing, not the picture, but the ! 
garb in which Clara was shown. Mrs. Hammersmith quite | 
shuddered at the indelicacy of it all ; Mrs. Thompson thought ; 
athletics revolting; Mrs. Marblemore smiled indulgently, 
but Aunt Sadie vigorously defended the young woman and 1 
stoutly declared herself in favor of athletics. 

‘‘Physical culture,” said Aunt Sadie, learnedly, “is a 
science, and the noblest of sciences because the most useful, 
the most healthful and helpful to mankind. Depend upon it, 
my dears, if we practised it more we would all be in better 
health and better spirits. We would enjoy life more. Clara 
who devotes an hour or two every day to healthful exercises 
is never unwell. She is not troubled with headaches, or 
fainting spells. She is never peevish, but always good- 
natured, and bubbling over with fun. And look at her 
figure, her color ; note how clear her eyes are, how healthful 
her skin. She has an excellent appetite, a vigorous digestion 
and at night she sleeps like a baby.” 

“But it is so indelicate,” said Mrs. Hammersmith. 

“In what way? I do not see it. To be sure, she need 
not have been photographed in this garb, but there is no 
harm in that ; that is,” added Aunt Sadie, hastily concealing 
the picture as she recalled her boy’s presence in the room, 
“she ought not to show it thus publicly. Clara, I’m surprised 
at you,” she concluded severely, “with my pure boy by.” 

Clara laughed, but blushed too, glancing in Sherman’s 
direction. 

“I had forgotten. Auntie,” she said, “let’s hide it.” 

And laughing gayly, she piled a great heap of books 
upon the offending picture. 

A servant entered at that moment with a card which he 
presented to Mrs. Marblemore. She read the name upon it, 
her cheeks paling and blushing from some hidden emotion. 

“Rev. Mortimer Ringrose.” 

She rose in the greatest agitation and murmuring a 
word of excuse to her guests she hastened away. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


IN WHICH A SHEPHERD TURNS WOLF. 

Oh, the intelligence of the eye ! The eloquence of a 
glance! What worlds of meaning can be conveyed in a 
single look ! How eloquent are the eyes of lovers ! How 
speaking the glance of the passion-ridden man or woman ! 
The tongue is a puny instrument by comparison. What can- 
not the glance of an eye convey? It expresses love, hate, 
admiration, scorn, fear, courage — every sentiment, feeling, 
thought or passion of which a human being is capable. 

When the Reverend Mortimer Ringrose presumed for 
the first time to gaze into the clear, blue eyes of Mrs. Mar- 
blemore with more than a glance of friendly interest — with 
a stare of unqualified admiration indeed, that lady was a 
good deal startled but, strange to say, not at all displeased. 
She glanced quickly at her unconscious husband and again 
at the minister, who returned her gaze with the same auda- 
cious look of admiration ; and when he took her hand in his 
in friendly greeting he pressed it gently, but none the less 
with ardor, smiling the while into her wondering eyes. She 
withdrew her hand and turned away her eyes, but still she 
was not displeased, much less indignant. Their eyes met 
again and again — met quite across the church while she 
stood waiting her husband’s pleasure as the minister went 
about distributing greetings among his flock. His eyes ex- 
pressed open admiration, hers curiosity, wonder, surprise. 
It was their first meeting. The man’s audacity challenged 
her interest. She understood the meaning of his glance and 
she tingled with a curious mixture of oflfended pride and 
secret pleasure. He was an eminently handsome man, and 
a brilliant and popular preacher. He had singled her out 
as the one most worthy of admiration. The thought tickled 
her vanity — still her pride revolted at the thought of any 
man presuming to gaze upon her with other than respectful 
feelings. 


194 


THE WATTERSONS. 


She went home thinking of him, and of his glance. She 
was a sensible woman, a woman of mature years, but still 
she could not — she did not try to banish thoughts at once 
unfaithful to her husband and dangerous to herself. What 
harm could such thoughts work upon her? She was no 
longer young; she had left the giddiness of girlhood far 
behind; she was strong, firm, sure of herself. Nevertheless 
she looked into her mirror with more than usual care that 
night. The glass reflected a face of great beauty, a beauty 
mellowed into that matronly loveliness which far surpassed 
mere girlish prettiness, and which to many men is infinitely 
more attractive. Her abundance of silky golden hair formed 
an appropriate crown to this lovely countenance and the 
figure unrivalled in exquisite proportions and in grace of 
outline completed the picture of a woman as charming and 
beautiful as any that ever blessed the eyes of man. 

The Man who had admired her was very much in her 
thoughts that night and the following day. Other men had 
Admired her, to be sure, but in their admiration was ever 
mingled that proportion of respect which tempers the glance 
to modest endurance, making it a delight to the purest of the 
sex. This man’s bold presumption charmed her. He be- 
came to her The Man. Her last thought was of him when 
she fell asleep — her first called up his image on awakening. 
He came to her a few days later. He was announced while 
her husband was beside her, and curiously enough she had 
felt a sensation of guilt in the pleasure his coming gave 
her. Her cheeks became red with blushes and were still 
rosy when The Man came in. Her eyes were curious but 
timid, his were boldly admiring even in the presence of her 
husband. She knew that whatever his ostensible reason for 
calling, he had really come to see her, to express his ad- 
miration of her with his speaking eyes. She looked down 
while her husband was talking. She raised her eyes when 
The Man spoke, and always met his looking into hers. She 
caught his plea for support in the thing he desired. She 
gave it not reluctantly, but passively as if impelled by The 
Man’s eyes. They fascinated her, made her afraid — she, a 
middle-aged woman ! She sided with him against her hus- 
band when those eyes bade her, and by her interest gained 


IN WHICtI A SHEPHERD TURNS WOLF. 


195 


The Man's cause. Her husband went away but The Man 
stayed on, and talked of the project, but always his eyes 
told a different story. 

The Man gone, she wandered about ill at ease, con- 
science-stricken, but always thinking of The Man — not 
with anger or abhorrence, but with secret delight, dwelling 
upon his every word and look. She thought of what his eyes 
had told her. She realized then what it meant, what she 
had been doing. She felt guilty and ashamed. Without 
forming any definite resolution she awaited her husband's 
home-coming to make some loving advances, a thing so 
unusual in the cold, undemonstrative wife as to greatly 
astonish and delight her husband. He did not understand 
her, and in honest endeavor to show his gratitude he 
awakened only her contempt and disgust, driving her farther 
from him and towards The Man. 

The Man came again and again. He came every day, 
ostensibly to talk over his contemplated entertainment, but 
always his eyes told a different story. Nothing ever came 
of the entertainment, perhaps nothing was ever intended to 
come of it. The project was abandoned at the first ripple 
of opposition, but still The Man continued his visits. His 
coming was usually timed with the banker's absence. Mary 
was an idle woman. Time hung heavy on her hands. Elmer 
was now grown to manhood. Her love for him was no 
longer all-absorbing. She wanted something to fill her 
mind, something to occupy her thoughts. She was given to 
brooding fits of melancholy. The Man's presence enlivened 
her, revivified her as it were, carried her out of herself. He 
talked well of many things, of men he had met, of sights 
he had seen, of books he had read, of amusing adventures 
undergone. His voice was soft and musical, his laugh a 
little ripple of pure enjoyment, his gestures the perfection 
of grace, and his smile most engaging. His vivacious pres- 
ence was soothing and fascinating to a woman of Mary's 
phlegmatic temperament. His eyes eloquently bespoke his 
admiration of her womanly charms, his tongue never. He 
was delicacy itself. He never shocked her wifely pride by 
so much as a whisper. His eyes pleaded for him. He 
sighed and his sighs spoke volumes. He pressed her hand 


196 


THE WATTERSONS. 


gently and the pressure strongly tempted Mary to return 
it. He showed himself melancholy at times, merry at others, 
lively or depressed, silent or talkative, and by his manner 
showed that his momentary mood was solely due to her re- 
ception of him. He displayed a thousand tokens of his 
secret passion, each more eloquent, more touching than the 
other, and every day his presence influenced her more; she 
came to look forward to his coming and met him when he 
came with open gladness, blushing like a giddy schoolgirl 
beneath his glance. This continued for many weeks. She 
did not know how it was all to end. She was really infat- 
uated — that she knew, also she was afraid of what this infat- 
uation might lead her to. She tried to resist it; she even 
tried in a feeble, ineffectual way to get away from The Man’s 
influence. 

''Let us go away, Andrew,” she said one day. 

"Why, Mary?” 

"Oh, I’m tired. I want to travel. Let us go to Europe. 
Come, Andrew.” 

She did not look at him in making her plea. She could 
not meet his eyes, they were so kind and honest. 

"I can’t get away, Mary,” he replied. "I am over my 
ears in business.” 

"Can’t you get some one to look after your business for 
a while?” 

"I could, perhaps, Mary, but not without a great loss 
of money.” 

She turned away with a bitter little smile. Always 
money, money, money. The man’s soul was steeped in 
thoughts of it. She turned once more to The Man, but she 
tried again later — weeks later. 

"Mr. Winslow has written Aunt Sadie, Andrew,” she 
said one evening at table when Clara and Elmer were by, 
"he is not content in his new pastorate and he speaks re- 
gretfully of his old friends. He would like very much to 
return to us. Can you not manage it some way, Andrew ? ” 

"What !” cried the banker, gayly, "send Brother Ring- 
rose away? Why I thought you were great friends, Mary?” 

"I do not know why you should think so,” she replied 


IN WHICH A SHEPHERD TURNS WOLF. I97 

coldly. ''I consult with him on church matters as I did 
with Mr. Winslow.’’ 

''Of course, Mary,” said her husband, soothingly. 

"Oh, you wouldn’t send Mr. Ringrose away. Papa,” 
cried Clara. 

"He’s so pretty,” sneered Elmer. 

"Mr. Ringrose seems to give general satisfaction,” the 
banker said thoughtfully. "I see no reason for any change, 
Mary. And in any case Brother Winslow would never do 
now, you know.” 

After that Mary deliberately closed her eyes to what 
she called, in her less lucid intervals, the inevitable. She 
was capable of a deep but not a lasting passion. Even her 
love for her child had waned during the years of separation. 
She was an innocent woman. Unchaste thoughts found no 
lodgment in her mind; but on the other hand her sense of 
shame was not acute. Loveless wedlock had in a large 
measure blunted her womanly delicacy. She was given to 
brooding over her lot. Her life to her mind had for many 
years been grossly immoral. She had lost all her self-respect. 
She lived in constant scorn of self, and the temptation, com- 
ing into her life at this time found her ripe for anything. 
In the state of mind into which she by her constant brooding 
had fallen, the step she contemplated seemed scarcely a step 
downward. And so she came to look forward to the end 
with a dreadful calmness. She now lived in daily expecta- 
tion of a crisis. The Man was becoming bolder. His voice 
always gentle and caressing had become almost tender, his 
sighs more frequent, his eyes more eloquent. The pressure 
of his hand seemed to demand an answering pressure. 

Thus matters stood on that evening when, sitting in the 
midst of her friends. The Man was announced. Mary has- 
tened in the greatest agitation to the small reception-room, 
just off the dining-room where she usually received him. 
His coming always agitated her, but this was his second 
visit that day. Her step was rapid, her eyes very bright, 
her brain in a whirl, as she hurried to meet him, for some- 
thing told her that the crisis in her life was at hand. He 
came a step to meet her, as faultless in attire, as irreproach- 
able in manner, as handsome, as smiling as ever. Was he 


198 


THE WATTERSONS. 


really about to speak? She asked herself the question 
tremblingly as she faced him. She gave him a pale little 
smile and waited, her heart palpitating like any girl’s ex- 
pecting her first proposal. 

‘‘I understand that you have company,” he said, smiling, 
''and I will not detain you long. I am going away for a 
day or two — two days to Traviston — perhaps to Chicago.” 

He paused and his eyes roved away shiftily. His white 
hand moved uneasily to his chin. She regarded him with 
a never wavering glance, and somehow her direct gaze made 
him uneasy. 

"I shall start tonight on the latest train which leaves 
at 6:20. I expect to remain in Chicago tomorrow and Fri- 
day, and perhaps Friday night.” 

"Go on,” her eyes spoke the words, but no sound came 
from her lips. 

"I am wholly unknown in the city. It is very large.” 

She understood him. His cowardice appeared to her, 
in the light of the glamour which her fancy had woven 
around him, as the purest delicacy. She understood him 
well and the color flowed into her cheeks. 

"Shall I meet you there?” 

The question formed itself in her mind. It was on the 
tip of her tongue, her lips moved but they uttered no sound. 
Her eyes looked straight into his and he no longer sought to 
evade them. She looked very beautiful at that moment. 
She wore a pretty negligee gown of a pale blue color; her 
cheeks were flushed, her eyes glowed brilliantly, her scarlet 
lips were half parted as she stood looking up at him. His 
eyes glowed with passionate admiration. He seized her 
hapd and kissed it once, twice, three, four times ere she 
could withdraw it. Having done so she retreated a step 
frightened it would seem — astonished, and, aye — indignant ! 

"Good-bye,” he said without noting these little symp- 
toms. "Good-bye, Mary.” 

She did not reply and he went away. She sank heavily 
into a chair, and with her hands folded in her lap sat for a 
long time gazing straight in front of her. What were the 
thoughts seething in her brain? What the sensations stir- 
ring her heart almost to bursting? Who can tell? She 


IN WHICH A SHEPHERD TURNS WOLF. I99 

smiled, she blushed and paled again; she moved uneasily 
and cast furtive glances around her. She rubbed the hand 
which he had kissed, glancing down at it with a strange ex- 
pression of repugnance. Her cheeks still glowed when with 
a sudden recollection of her guests she rose to go to them. 
But before going, as if impelled by an invisible power within 
her she hastened upstairs to her chamber and washed the 
hand that had lain in The Man’s and which he had touched 
with his lips. 

Aunt Sadie and Myrtle were adjusting their hats ready 
to take their departure. Mary spoke her adieus in a subdued 
voice, avoiding her friend’s eyes. She blushed the more 
when Aunt Sadie, remarking upon her wonderful color, bent 
and kissed her cheek. She followed Aunt Sadie’s stately 
form with her glance to the last, her eyes expressing deep 
shame and contrition. 


CHAPTER XV. 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GOES ON HER ROUNDS. 

''Are you quite sure, Franklin,” said Aunt Sadie, 
pursing her mouth, "quite sure that we paid sixty-four cents 
for the raisins? My impression is that it was sixty-three.” 

"Sixty-four, Miss Sadie,” replied Franklin, firmly. 

"Thank you,” nodded Aunt Sadie ; "of course you 
would know. Sixty-four then; and the preserves, Franklin, 
the peaches and apricots? Eighty cents in all, were they 
not ?” 

"Yes, Miss Sadie. Eight quarts at ten cents a quart.” 

"Thank you very much, Franklin. It is very important 
that I make no mistakes in my household accounts, you un- 
derstand? Do sit down, Katy. Is my boy gone, Emma?” 

"No, Aliss Sadie; Mr. Sherman is just going.” 

A moment later Sherman came into the kitchen where 
Aunt Sadie sat surrounded by her faithful servitors, busily 
engaged in putting her household accounts in order. The 
prodigious energy which Aunt Sadie put into this task; the 
way she wrinkled up her brows in pondering important 
items; the manner in which she compressed her mouth in 
setting them down, the deep earnestness with which she 
went about her labors and the sagacious nods with which 
she accompanied the whole were all delightful to witness. 
Everything that was ever purchased for housekeeping pur- 
poses was most painstakingly set down in Aunt Sadie’s 
household books, but as she had never in all her lifetime 
thought of adding up the total at the end of the month, and 
knew no more the amount of her actual expenditures at 
the end of the year than she knew in the beginning, it may 
be questioned whether all this labor was not so much energy 
wasted. But Aunt Sadie did not think so. 

"Hard at work. Auntie?” said Sherman, coming into 
the kitchen. "Shall I lend a hand?” 

"No, darling,” replied Aunt Sadie, shaking her head 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GOES ON HER ROUNDS. 201 


very earnestly; ''I must attend to the household accounts 
myself. It is hard though, I never was very good at figures. 
Geography and arithmetic were two very terrible spectres 
to me in my school days. I never got beyond long division, 
and I never could bound any State. I know that New York 
is east of Illinois and that California is west ; but that is as 
far as my knowledge of geography extends,’’ continued 
Aunt Sadie, wrinkling up her nose and laughing very 
heartily. ^'My impression always has been that Illinois is 
the very center of America.” 

''It is. Auntie,” Sherman declared, pressing his cheek 
to hers.. "Clarenceburg — this kitchen — is the center of the 
universe when you are in it.” 

"My sweet child ! Katy, if you don’t sit down this min- 
ute I shall scold you !” 

"And let my work go undone?” cried Katy wkh scorn. 
"No, no. Miss Sadie !” 

"I will help you with your work. Please, Katy.” 

So Katy sat herself rigidly erect on the other side of 
the table, and Aunt Sadie beaming upon her turned to her 
books again. Sherman went away after embracing his 
adoring Aunt. 

"Now, Franklin, that my boy has gone — dear me!” 
cried Aunt Sadie, starting up as the bell rang out sharply ; 
"who can be calling so early in the morning? I do hope 
Mrs. Sawyer isn’t unwell, or Mrs. Sidenbender’s baby now. 
I do sincerely hope that it isn’t Mrs. Sidenbender’s little 
darling Joe. Will you go, Franklin?” 

To be sure would Franklin. He returned in a moment, 
but before he could announce the visitor, she followed him 
into the kitchen in the person of Mrs. Marblemore. 

"My gracious, Mary !” cried Aunt Sadie, radiant with 
joy. "Is it you? I’m so glad to see you so early. You dear 
Mary !” 

"Did I surprise you. Auntie?” said Mary smiling 
faintly. "I mean to spend the day with you if I may?” 

"I shall be delighted, Mary,” cried Aunt Sadie; "and 
you will come with me to see my friends?” 

"Yes, Auntie. When do you start?” 

Oh, not for hours yet ! Aunt Sadie had ever so much 


202 


THE WATTERSONS. 


to do first ! In the meantime she led the way into the parlor 
and settling herself in her comfortable rocker, she plunged 
into an interminable account of the doings and happenings 
in her little world. Mary, with a restlessness much like that 
which animated Elmer at times, went running about the 
room, plumping herself into this chair, then that, only to 
start up afresh every moment. 

'‘You mustn’t leave me all day. Auntie,’’ she cried sud- 
denly interrupting her friend. "Not for a single minute, 
mind !” 

"Why, how very funny, Mary,” said Aunt Sadie, re- 
garding her in wonder. "How very strange, my dear.” 

Mary said nothing, but smiling into the good lady’s eyes 
she shook her head rebelliously as if in the old days of her 
widowhood. 

"One of your funny whims, Mary?” asked Aunt Sadie 
smiling. 

"Yes, Auntie, one of my whims.” 

It was nearly noon when the phaeton was brought 
around with big brown Bessie in the shafts, and Aunt Sadie 
drove away with her friend. 

"We’ll call first on old Sergeant Morrissey,” cried Aunt 
Sadie, laughing gayly as they started forth. "He’s afflicted 
with rheumatism, poor man, but he’s the merriest old fellow 
in the world for all that. Here’s where he lives.” 

She brought Bessie to a standstill in front of a rusty 
looking frame cottage and they alighted. After duly patting 
Bessie’s nose. Aunt Sadie took up a small basket of which 
half a dozen had been placed in the phaeton by the incom- 
parable Franklin, and followed closely by her friend, she 
entered the yard and approached the door, treading her 
way carefully along the board walk to avoid the yawning 
ruts and holes. Knocking gently she opened the door and 
led the way in entering breezily with a smile upon her lips. 

"Good morning to yez, Leddy Bountiful,” was the 
greeting she received from an old weather-beaten fellow 
who sat beside a window, pipe in mouth. "It’s swate yez 
are lookin’ this mornin’, my bonny leddy !” 

"You’re blarneying me again. Sergeant,” cried Aunt 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GOES ON HER ROUNDS. 203 

Sadie gurgling with laughter. ^'You’re a gay deceiver, so 
you are!'’ 

'‘No, no, Leddy Bountiful," protested the Sergeant, 
limping forward to relieve her of the basket, which he 
carefully deposited beside Aunt Sadie’s chair, handling it 
with the disinterested air of one utterly ignorant of its 
contents or destination. 

“I mind the toime when yez were only a little shlip of 
a gurl, Leddy Bountiful,’’ continued Sergeant Morrissey, 
regarding the smiling lady out of a pair of exceedingly 
roguish eyes ; “yez ud come across the track where meself 
was watchman fur thirty-five years goin’ to your father’s 
broom factory — only a little shlip of a gurl no bigger than 
me two thumbs.’’ 

Aunt Sadie shook her head in vehement denial, laughing 
heartily all the time. 

“And who is th’ purty gurl yez got with yez this 
mornin’, Leddy Bountiful? Ah, it’s the great leddy who 
lives in the castle, is it? Good mornin’ to yez, my dear.’’ 

“Good morning, Sergeant,’’ replied Mary sweetly. 

She was greatly taken with the gallant old fellow’s 
manner and amused by his drolleries. 

“How have you been doing these last few days. Ser- 
geant?’’ asked Aunt Sadie. 

“Foinely, foinely, Leddy Bountiful,’’ replied the Ser- 
geant, still regarding Mary with his head held very much on 
one side. 

“You must sit in the sun as much as possible. Sergeant.’’ 

“Do yez but come wanst in a while, ye purty cratur, 
and the sun may go out for me.’’ 

“Ah, you naughty blarneyer ! Well, Sergeant, we must 
go now. Good-bye. Take care of yourself.’’ 

“Good-bye, Sergeant,’’ smiled Mary. 

“It’s a long time since me poor house has been honored 
be so much swateness and beauty,’’ said the gallant veteran, 
bowing them out. . 

“He’s the dearest old fellow,’’ cried Aunt Sadie ; “I 
nearly die with laughing sometimes listening to his droll 
stories. He served in the English army in his youth and he 
is chock-full of funny experiences from his soldier days. 


204 


THE WATTERSONS. 


He is always merry despite his poverty and his affliction/’ 

''Let us return, Sadie, and give him some money,” said 
Mary.” 

"By no means !” cried Aunt Sadie ; "do not offer money 
to any of my friends, Mary. It would wound them griev- 
ously. They are not in want. They are proud, Mary, and 
would repudiate anything savoring of charity with scorn. I 
take them little delicacies, such as fruits and wines and medi- 
cines. That is all. They know and their neighbors know 
that my visits are merely in the way of friendly calls.” 

"Do you really enjoy going around this way. 
Auntie ?” 

"Indeed I do. My friends all love me and that is a 
great happiness.” 

"You do much good, Sadie.” 

"No, Mary, no! Do not think of it in that way. I am 
really very selfish in doing what I do.” 

"Selfish, Auntie !” 

"Yes, Mary,” said Aunt Sadie firmly. "There is no 
merit in doing what we love to do is there? If my friends 
were to become cold to me ; if they were to close their doors 
to me forbidding me to visit them, I believe I should die of 
grief. Let me see, we’ll call on the Thompsons next. Their 
little girl is so sick, poor thing.” 

They were received at the door of a stately mansion by 
a motherly looking woman, who immediately led the way 
into an inner room. young girl lay on a couch beside 
the window. Her thin, pale face told of long suffering. 
She smiled brightly at sight of Aunt Sadie, but took no 
notice at all of Mary, who seated herself somewhat in the 
background. 

It was pretty to see how lovingly Aunt Sadie bent 
over the sick girl, murmuring soft words of hope and 
cheer. She smoothed back the patient’s silky hair with a 
gentle hand, and throughout her stay her soft palm glided 
soothingly over the sick girl’s brow and across the throb- 
bing temples which seemed to afford the child intense relief 
and gratification. 

"Spring is coming my little pet,” Aunt Sadie’s caressing 
voice came to Mary. "The sun is shining brightly now 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GOES ON HER ROUNDS. 205 

and the wind is blowing from the south, and soon, very 
soon the flowers will bloom and the birds will sing, and the 
trees will blossom radiantly, and then my little pet will be 
out in the sun and wind singing in emulation of the birds, 
and her cheeks will bloom and her eyes will shine in glorious 
rivalry with the flowers. Will not that be nice, pet? All 
this will come to pass my love. Only trust in the good God. 
Pray to Him daily, my dear, hourly.” 

‘'Good Aunt Sadie !” whispered the afflicted girl, draw- 
ing down the soothing hand and pressing it to her pale 
lips. “You must come to me every day — every day. Auntie ! 
I am so happy when you are with me. Will you come 
tomorrow. Aunt Sadie ?” 

“Tomorrow and the next day and the next day and 
every day until my little girl is well and strong again.” 

“Sweet Aunt Sadie,” said the child, kissing the kind 
hand again. 

Aunt Sadie talked on in a low soft voice, speaking words 
of hope and encouragement. The gentle murmur came to 
Mary sounding far, far away. She sat there staring like 
one in a dream. She saw not the sick girl, she saw the Man 
awaiting her. Unable longer to endure the thoughts en- 
gendered by this picture, she sprang up saying, “Come, 
Aunt Sadie.” 

But the sick girl clung to Aunt Sadie’s hand and cast- 
ing a beseeching glance around at her friend, the good lady 
sat down again. 

“She is dreadfully afraid of death, poor little thing,” 
said Aunt Sadie, when they were in the phaeton again; 
“and naturally. It is very hard to come into this beautiful 
world and live just long enough to comprehend the joys in 
store for you and then to be obliged to die and leave it all.” 

“She was made happy by your coming, Sadie,” said 
Mary. 

“Yes ; it is dreadful to lie ill for weeks and weeks at a 
time. You know that Mary, and how glad you were to 
have your friends come to see you. I have never been ill, 
but I have seen enough of illness to know how hard it is. 
Time passes so slowly. There is no diversion ; there is 
weakness of body, listlessness of mind, racking pain perhaps 


2o6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


and often the dread fear of death. Now we'll call on Mrs. 
Sawyer.’' 

Mrs. Sawyer was a near neighbor of Mrs. Marble- 
more, occupying a gorgeous house just across the street 
from the Marblemore mansion. It was as cunningly fur- 
nished within as if designed for the habitation of a pretty 
bird. And Mrs. Sawyer its mistress was a young wife, a 
pretty little woman with rosy cheeks and timid smiling 
eyes. She was not unwell in body but decidedly despondent 
in mind, for Mrs. Sawyer was about to become a mother for 
the first time, and when she thought of the ordeal in store 
for her, her cheeks became pale and her smiling eyes took on 
a frightened look that without doubt made Mrs. Sawyer 
very attractive in Mr. Sawyer’s eyes. 

''It isn’t that I fear for the outcome. Aunt Sadie,” said 
Mrs. Sawyer, clasping Aunt Sadie’s hand in both her own 
and looking from her to Mary, "not at all. Henry is quite 
sure that I will be all right, and of course Henry knows, 
but I am dreadfully, fearfully, horridly afraid of pain.” 

"But you shouldn’t be, Tessie,” said Aunt Sadie sooth- 
ingly, "should she, Mary? You won’t mind it at all, will 
she Mary? I’ll be here you know,” added Aunt Sadie 
nodding, as if all pain fled before her cheerful presence. 

Mrs. Sawyer brightened up a good deal at this. 

"And then, what is a wee little bit of pain when borne 
for Henry’s sake, Tessie?” 

"Nothing,” said Tessie, smiling brightly, "nothing at 

all.” 

"And then, Tessie,” said Aunt Sadie, taking Tessie’s 
cheeks in her hands and looking deep into Tessie’s eyes, 
"think of the great happiness in store for you. To have a 
baby of your own, Tessie — your very own !” 

"And Henry’s,” cried Tessie laughing joyously. 

"And Henry’s, to be sure. Isn’t that worth bearing a 
little pain for?” 

"Yes, indeed.” 

Tessie had never thought of it in that light before ; she 
felt quite heroic and became as cheerful and lively as the 
proverbial cricket. 

"You must not think of the pain at all, dear Tessie, 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GOES ON HER ROUNDS. 207 

but of the great joy in store for you, of Henry’s delight and 
of the supreme happiness of giving life to a child who will 
some day be a great man like Henry, or a grand and beauti- 
ful woman like Mary here.” 

''Like Aunt Sadie,” said Mary with a pale little smile.” 

"Yes,” said Tessie quite comfortably, "like Aunt Sadie.” 

Then Aunt Sadie fell to picturing the future to Tessie’s 
delighted eyes. She would soon be sitting in her rocker with 
her baby in her arms or taking it out riding in the beautiful 
baby carriage which Henry would procure, walking by 
Henry’s side with everybody looking on and saying, "There 
goes Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer and the baby !” Tessie quite 
shrieked with delight at a picture so enchanting. Aunt 
Sadie went further. The baby would soon be toddling about 
and lisping "Papa” and "Mama,” and then it would learn 
to walk and finally to talk clearly and intelligently and then 
away to school. Aunt Sadie’s glowing eloquence quite sur- 
prised Mary and for a moment arrested her brooding 
thoughts and turned them into a purer channel. As for 
Tessie, she was laughing like a little mad creature, and when 
they finally arose to take their leave she insisted on accom- 
panying them to the front door and did so, walking slowly 
and clasping Aunt Sadie’s hand all the way. They saw her 
cheerful, rosy face peeping out at them from behind the 
curtains and Aunt Sadie gayly waved her hand to her. 

They visited many people during the afternoon. Mrs. 
Winston had a sick baby, a little boy of two years who 
stared up at Aunt Sadie out of a pair of beautiful brown 
eyes, very much like her own, as she tenderly smoothed back 
his curls ; Mrs. Hampton’s husband, who was recovering 
from a fever was peevish and ill-humored, but he became very 
cheerful and tractable when Aunt Sadie promised him her 
intercession with Mr. Langhorn, Mr. Hampton’s employer, 
with a view to having Mr. Hampton’s position held open for 
him until his recovery; Mrs. Brownlow was a victim of 
dropsy, and there was positively no cheering her up; Mrs. 
Littlefield’s husband was a sot and a loafer, and the little 
Littlefields, of whom there were of course, eight or nine, 
were in consequence rather hungry and forlorn. Aunt Sadie 
despatched a note to Ferguson, the grocer, by the eldest Lit- 


2o8 


THE WATTERSONS. 


tlefield boy and no doubt the family, not excepting Mr. Lit- 
tlefield, fared well that evening. Susan McDonald was 
motherless and but ten years old, but Susan looked after four 
little brothers and sisters during her father’s working hours. 
She came in for a good deal of petting at Aunt Sadie’s 
hands ; Miss Mumford was an old maid, very taciturn, 
very deaf and very ill-natured — and so on. Aunt Sadie 
visited them all and with the greatest possible patience lis- 
tened to their sighs and plaints, soothing their woes with 
words of hope and courage. 

As the day advanced Mary became more and more 
restless. She quite clung to Aunt Sadie’s arm when they 
were in the street. 

‘'Don’t leave me for a single instant. Auntie,” she said 
imploringly, and Aunt Sadie smiled at her friend’s queer 
whim and kept close beside her. 

It was late in the evening when Aunt Sadie after several 
brief stops drew up in front of the Ringrose parsonage. 
Mary awoke with a start from a fit of abstraction into which 
she had sunken. 

“Are — are you going in there, Sadie?” she asked in a 
low voice. 

“Only for a moment, Mary. I want to see Mrs. Ring- 
rose.” 

“I will wait, Sadie,” gasped Mary, very pale and agi- 
tated. 


“No, Mary, you must come with me. I am not to 
leave you for a moment you remember.” 

“But— but— ” 

“Come Mary,” said Aunt Sadie. 

She stood smiling but inexorable, and Mary after one 
agonizing glance into her face alighted, and together they 
went into the pretty parsonage where Mrs. Ringrose received 
them, sitting all huddled up before an open fire-place with 
the children playing around about her. She looked some- 
what pale and disheveled. She was very near confinement 
again and her wan appearance was no doubt largely due to 
her condition. 

“Well, my dear,” said Aunt Sadie cheerily; “how are 
you today?” 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GOES ON HER ROUNDS. 20C) 

'Till not feeling at all well/’ replied Mrs. Ringrose 
plaintively. 

“Pooh ! pooh ! my dear ; you only imagine so !” Aunt 
Sadie declared preemptorily. “You should move about a 
little, my love.” 

“I can't,” replied the little woman shivering. “Now, 
Aunt Sadie, please don’t scold me or else I’ll cry, and that 
will start the children.” 

She gazed with large defiant eyes at Aunt Sadie, who 
now had taken the youngest of the children upon her lap 
and was engaged in washing the dirt from the little face. 
The others had gathered clamoring around the good lady. 
Mary from the background looked on this scene with di- 
lating eyes. Mrs. Ringrose plunged into a long drawn ac- 
count of her manifold symptoms, intermingling peevish com- 
plaints against the doctor whose medicines did her no good ; 
against her husband for absenting himself at this particular 
time ; against her children who were so naughty ; against 
Aunt Sadie for coming in and disturbing her so thought- 
lessly ; against all the world in short which did not and never 
could understand Mrs. Ringrose. Aunt Sadie listened good- 
humoredly, the while continuing her cheery ministrations. 

She was a frequent visitor at the parsonage. Mrs. Ring- 
rose never was wholly well and one or another of the chil- 
dren was always ailing. The minister’s wife was at best a 
helpless little creature always worrying peevishly, always 
complaining with that martyr-like air you know of. She 
considered herself the most abused little woman in the world. 
All the elements of nature conspired against her peace of 
mind. Rainy weather depressed Mrs. Ringrose; sunshine 
hurt her eyes ; hot weather irritated her ; cold weather made 
her shiver ; the wind reddened her nose — in short, all 
weathers were alike designing and disagreeable to her. So 
she remained steadfastly at home with closed doors and 
darkened windows until Aunt Sadie’s advent upon the 
scene. 

That autocratic personage descended upon the luckless 
little woman like the iconoclast she was, and all went down be- 
fore her. Doors and windows were thrown wide during the 
summer months. She forced Mrs. Ringrose out on long 


210 


THE WATTERSONS. 


walks every day ; the children were taken out in Aunt Sadie’s 
own phaeton and encouraged to play in the open. Every- 
thing was aired, swept, cleaned and polished under Aunt 
Sadie’s good-humored supervision. She wrought on the 
whole a wonderful change both in Mrs. Ringrose and in her 
household in the course of a few weeks, but through it all 
Mrs. Ringrose persisted in regarding her cheery benefactor 
as a despot and a tyrant. She was, however, a timid little 
soul and dared not rebel against Aunt Sadie’s high-handed 
assumption of authority. 

''Goodness only knows how I stand it,” said Mrs. Ring- 
rose turning to Mary who sat pale and cold with her skirts 
gathered about her. "Everybody is so irritating. I never 
have a moment’s peace at all, what with the children and the 
neighbors, who surely are the queerest women in the world, 
and so I tell Mortimer. And now he had to go away just 
at this time when I need him so much.” 

And the poor little woman fell to crying piteously. 

"But he will be back very soon now, my dear,” said 
Aunt Sadie said soothingly. "I wouldn’t cry. Look at the 
baby. See how pretty he is and how he smiles at you. Look, 
he wants to go to you.” 

Mrs. Ringrose dried her eyes and smiled at the little 
one, who indeed was gurgling and crowing in infantine 
glee and holding out his arms with such a bewitching smile, 
that the mother fairly caught him to her heart laughing in 
pure sympathy. _ 

"You have such a pretty family, my love — has she not, 
Mary?” continued Aunt Sadie, "and such a nice home and 
a husband both kind and helpful, I am sure. Why worry 
over trifles which after all are only of the moment. Think 
of the many poor women, my dear, who have no pretty home 
like yours; no husband to love them; no children to gladden 
their hearts.” 

"But everybody is so irritating,” said Mrs. Ringrose, 
who was smiling now however very cheerfully. 

"You only think so. Depend upon it, my dear, people 
are exactly as you would have them. Smile at them now 
and they will smile back at you, laugh and they will gladly 
share your gladness, speak them fairly and they will speak 


IN WHICH AUNT SADIE GOES ON HER ROUNDS. 21 1 


kindly to you and of you ; but frown at all who approach 
you, and you will reap frowns and nothing else ; ask Mary.’’ 

''It is funny isn’t it?” said the little woman, innocently; 
"the way people are. I’ve always noticed that. Must you 
go. Auntie?” added she, rising as Aunt Sadie rose. "Come 
again, do, I am always glad to see you.” 

"Are you tired, Mary?” asked Aunt Sadie when they 
were once more in the street. 

"No, no, Sadie,” Mary replied, settling herself with a 
deep breath of relief ; "not tired.” 

It was growing dark now, and Bessie was headed home- 
ward. 

"It is good being with you. Auntie ! ” Mary said pres- 
ently ; "how everybody loves you ! All are eager for a smile 
or a word from you. Look, how the children rush to the 
windows ! The very babies hold out their arms shrieking 
'Aunt Sadie ! ’ You are very happy, Sadie, are you not? ” 

"Yes, very happy.” 

"Supremely happy? As happy as a woman may be?” 

"I did not say that, Mary,” replied Aunt Sadie gravely. 
"I did not say that at all.” 

"But you are. Is there anything lacking in your life 
that would make for your greater happiness ?” 

"Can you ask that, Mary — you who have a son — a hus- 
band? Think, Mary.” 

"You have a boy you know, Sadie.” 

"Yes, but he is not my own, Mary. Not my very own !” 

Oh, the wistful yearning in her voice ! The haunting 
sorrow of her eyes ! Mary remained silent — awed. 

"Sadie you could have married long ago. You know 
that,” said Mary, after a long silence. 

"Yes, Mary, I know that.” 

"Then why, Sadie?” 

"One does not marry a man merely out of friendly re- 
gard, Mary. There must be a deeper feeling. There must 
be love, for marriage without love is to my mind immoral.” 

"Immoral, Sadie? That is a hard word.” 

"But a true one, Mary.” 

"Then a woman who in a moment of madness has en- 


212 


THE WATTERSONS. 


tered into such a marriage lives an immoral life as long as 
she continues in it ?” 

“Yes, grossly immoral/’ 

“And she would be no worse if she left her husband for 
another man.” 

“Oh, yes, Mary, very much worse.” 

“Where does the difference lie?” cried Mary recklessly. 
“She is living a life of immorality, you say.” 

“Two wrongs do not make a right, my dear. The very 
thought should make a woman shrink away in horror.” 

“Then you cannot imagine a woman so lost to all virtue 
as to contemplate such a step ?” 

“Yes, Mary, I can imagine such. The step you speak of 
would not appear so very abhorrent to a woman who has 
lived for years in loveless wedlock. Her moral sense would 
without doubt become deadened.” 

“Yes, that is it,” cried Mary, in a half-stifled voice. 
“Oh, Sadie, that is it !” 

“But my love, how strange you are today. You must 
not let your mind dwell upon such gloomy things. Why 
should you? You are happily married and your life is laid 
out in a straight course before you. Follow it, my beautiful 
Mary, like the good, pure woman you are, and always be as 
you are now — a shining example to us all.” 

Mary reached up her arms and embraced her friend. 

“Oh, Sadie,” she said sobbing, “Oh, my good, sweet 
Sadie. Let me down here. Good-bye. It is after six, is it 
not?” 

“Yes, Mary.” 

Mary alighted at her home and hastened into the great 
mansion, leaving Aunt Sadie wondering very much at the 
singular mood her darling had been in all day. 

Mary hastened to her chamber and sank exhausted into 
a chair. 

“One day is gone thank God,” she murmured with a 

sigh. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


SHOWS THE woman's PROGRESSIVE UNION IN SOLEMN 
CONCLAVE. 

'T should like to go with you this morning, Clara," said 
Mrs. Marblemore, ‘'that is, if visitors are permitted to at- 
tend your meetings." 

“By all means. Mama," replied Clara in her smiling, 
amiable way. “We shall be glad to have you." 

Mary looked pale and listless, as if she had spent a 
sleepless night. Her eyes, however, shone unnaturally 
bright. A very demon was urging her on towards the black 
abyss. She resisted strongly, but fearful that if left alone to 
her haunting thoughts, she would inevitably yield to their 
direful promptings, she sought the company of a spirit 
stronger than her own. She had spent a day with Aunt 
Sadie and in parting fron> her, the victory was half won ; 
today she planned to spend with Clara in the hope of meeting 
at least with diversion and so distract her thoughts. 

“How soon are you going, Clara?" she asked in fever- 
ish impatience. 

“In half an hour. The meeting does not take place until 
afternoon but I like to spend an hour or two in the gymna- 
sium, and besides I have to put the finishing touches to my 
paper." 

The half hour dragged along slowly but Clara was ready 
to the minute. 

“Will you walk. Mama?" she asked, “or shall I have the 
carriage brought around. The weather is a little cool but 
pleasant for walking." 

Knowing Clara’s preference, Mary voted for the walk, and 
they sallied forth from the great mansion, two oddly contrast- 
ing figures. Mrs. Marblemore, elegantly gowned, her long 
skirts sweeping the ground, glided onward, carrying herself 
with a queenly grace that was natural to this charming 
woman ; and Clara, clad in a plain tailor-made gown, whose 


214 


THE WATTERSONS. 


skirt reached barely below her ankles. She walked with a 
queer undulating movement of the body which was not a 
gliding motion but resembling it, nor an easy stride but akin 
to it, nor yet an ambling pace, though not unlike it. It was a 
compound of all three, a queer seductive wriggling which, 
encompassing the whole body, set every muscle in the arms, 
hips and bust aquivering. She swung her arms freely as she 
walked and drew in long, deep breaths, her billowy bosom 
rising and falling in grand harmony with her wide freedom 
of movement and robust physique. 

They continued toward town in absolute silence, Mary 
busied with her thoughts and Clara, wearing that expression 
of haughty reserve, which in common with her father, she 
saw fit to assume in public. If was the latter part of 
September, cool and cloudy but dry. The foliage on the 
trees that lined the streets was rapidly assuming the varying 
tints of autumn. The palatial residences one following upon 
another, and all rioting in fantastic shapes and glaring 
colors, completed a scene as beautiful as Nature supple- 
mented by art can make. 

The meeting-hall of the Woman's Progressive 
Union was in the same building in which the Clarenceburg 
Woman’s League had its quarters, only a floor higher. The 
rooms were fitted up more elaborately than those occupied 
by the elder club. Mary was greatly astonished at the mag- 
nificence of the place, but Clara hurried her stepmother into 
the gymnasium in the rear which was her especial pride and 
delight. It was equipped with every modern appliance for 
the exercise of the muscles and the body. Mary surveyed 
the various contraptions — the swinging bars resembling 
trapeze, the turning poles, jumping hurdles, dumbbells, 
punching bag, boxing gloves, foils and elastic accoutrements 
of all kinds — with an air of extreme repugnance. 

‘‘What do you do with these things?” she said, catch- 
ing sight of a pair of foils, and retreating a step before them. 

Clara laughed. “We practice with them. Mama,” she 
said. “It hardens the muscles of the arms and gives the 
body excellent exercise.” 

“And do you use these too?” asked Mary, touching the 
boxing gloves with the tip of her shoe. 


woman's progressive union in conclave. 215 

^'Very rarely. I don't like them much and the girls 
don't care for boxing." 

‘'I should think not, indeed," said Mrs. Marblemore, 
shuddering. ''I do not see how Myrtle can permit such 
things." 

‘‘Myrtle has nothing to do with it. I have sole charge 
of this department. I fitted it up and I instruct the girls in 
athletics. You must come down some time and watch us at 
our exercises. We meet every Tuesday and Friday for ath- 
letic instruction and every Monday and Thursday for intel- 
lectual discussion. It is great fun — athletics — and the girls 
are all very much interested. Wait until I change my dress. 
Mama, and I'll show you." 

She hurried into an inner room and in ten minutes re- 
turned completely transformed. Her throat and arms were 
bared to the shoulders. She wore a loose fitting blousey 
waist and baggy breeches reaching to the knees. Below 
them her finely rounded limbs snugly encased in black hose, 
showed sturdily, and shoes of exceeding lightness completed 
her attire. 

“Now watch me. Mama," she cried. 

Mary did watch with dilating eyes the astonishing feats 
performed by this smiling girl. Catching firm hold of two 
large rings suspended by a couple of stout ropes from the 
ceiling, she swung backward and forward, first supported 
by the hands, then head downward, with her legs thrust 
through the rings. Then lightly springing to the floor, she 
caught hold of a bar, and drew herself up slowly by main 
strength until her chin touched the bar, then lowering her- 
self, she rose again and again, performing a feat requiring 
extraordinary strength and endurance a dozen times in suc- 
cession. She performed miracles of daring upon the bar, 
whirling around and around with dizzying rapidity. The 
exercise left the girl glowing and panting, but clear-eyed and 
supple. Mrs. Marblemore stood breathless with astonish- 
ment and admiration. 

“Good heavens, Clara," she cried, “you’ll kill yourself 
some day." 

“Bah! " said Clara, laughing. “There is not the slight- 
est danger." 


2i6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


She went through the various exercises to show how to 
exercise the muscles in the arms and thighs, how to 
strengthen the back, how to acquire grace of movement and 
elasticity of step. She swung the dumbbells around her head 
with amazing vigor; posed, foil in hand, punched the bag, 
and laughingly offered to put on the gloves with Mary. 
They spent altogether two hours in the gymnasium and if the 
good-natured girl’s endeavors served no other purpose, they 
served to distract the thoughts of her harassed stepmother. 

Changing her dress, Clara again conducted Mary to the 
meeting room, which in place of many small tables was 
furnished simply with one long one around which chairs to 
the number of twenty were placed. The table was littered 
with papers, periodicals and books. There were many shelves 
fixed against the walls all crowded with fat volumes dealing 
with the ''Development,” "Progress” and "Emancipation” 
of woman. Mary examined them curiously, but with the 
same expression of repugnance with which she had regarded 
the athletic appliances in the gymnasium. None of these 
things appealed to her. She was interested in nothing, cared 
for nothing, could think of nothing but of The Man awaiting 
her. Members began dropping in after a while with whom 
the amiable lady conversed in smiling cordiality. Mary was 
not proud. She was a thorn in the side of a certain coterie 
of Clarenceburg ladies who would fain have formed into an 
exclusive social set but found it impossible because of Mrs. 
Marblemore’s persistent refusal to join in their scheme. The 
banker’s lady extended the same degree of cordial welcome 
to Mrs. Ferguson as to Mrs. Hammersmith, receiving the 
grocer’s wife’s neighborly call, and as often as not returning 
it, in preference to attending the swell reception of the aris- 
tocratically inclined lady. So while she was cordially hated 
by the set in question, her more humbly placed neighbors 
worshiped her. 

They called at the bank and carried the banker away 
with them, repairing in his company to Trainor’s, where 
they dined in one of the snug private rooms which Trainor 
held reserved for his more exclusive patrons. Mr. Marble- 
more was in high spirits. He laughed and joked a good 
deal, rallying Mary on her air of abstraction, but he did not 


woman's progressive union in conclave. 217 

succeed in arousing her. Leaving the banker stretched at 
ease, taking his usual midday nap, Mary and Clara returned 
to the meeting room. Myrtle was there. She came to meet 
Mary in cordial welcome. The girls came in in rapid succes- 
sion, after one o’clock, a bevy of chattering little creatures 
bubbling over with fun. They greeted Mrs. Marblemore 
with evident pleasure, and as that lady, according to her 
habit, showed herself amiable and responsive to their smiling 
friendliness, they gathered around her, a merry band, and 
there ensued a period of gay chatter which continued until 
Myrtle called the meeting to order. There were about twenty 
young women in attendance. Mary, sitting in the back- 
ground, looked on rather listlessly through the opening of 
routine business. 

Myrtle had long ago accurately gauged the patience of 
her companions, and had decreed that but two papers were 
to be read at each meeting, Clara Marblemore and Fanny 
Rowland were to be the speakers of the day. Mrs. Marble- 
more assumed an air of interested attention when Clara rose. 
Her paper was entitled ''The Athletic Girl.” It was well 
written and finely delivered, but it did not by any means con- 
fine itself to the subject. It began by recounting the benefits 
to be derived by women and through women to the human 
race as a whole through athletic games and exercises, which 
were coming more and more into practice, and almost at 
once started off into a discussion of woman’s liberties and re- 
strictions. 

"Time was,” said Clara in part, "and comparatively re- 
cently when athletics were regarded as debasing to woman, 
but that time is now happily past. In those days women 
were barred from colleges and forbidden the professions. 
Her attempts to engage in business were frowned upon, her 
pretensions to equality with man ridiculed ; her sphere of ac- 
tivity was confined strictly to the home. She spent her life 
in humble attendance upon her husband, who was in fact, as 
well as in name, her absolute lord and master. 

"This state of semi-slavery is now a thing of the past. 
The woman of the twentieth century has stepped forth and 
boldly proclaimed her liberty. She has demanded her rights 
and to some purpose. She has been admitted to the colleges 


2i8 


THE WATTERSONS. 


on terms of equality with man; she is entering the profes- 
sions and is competing side by side with men in business. 
Much has been gained, but there remains mucji to be desired. 
One thing especially, beside which the possession of the bal- 
lot sinks into insignificance: From time immemorial man 
has arrogated to himself the sole privilege of choosing a life 
companion. This is manifestly wrong. Why should not 
woman have the same liberty to choose her husband, the 
father of her children? Why should she not select her life 
companion from out of all men, and endeavor to win him by 
the same means employed by him — by proposing marriage 
to her heart’s choice? Until woman has thrown off all re- 
strictions imposed on her by custom and tradition, as well as 
by law and tyranny, she cannot be said to be completely 
emancipated.” 

Clara sat down very demurely. A deep silence had fal- 
len upon the room. Myrtle’s face expressed both distress 
and uneasiness as she glanced at her companions. They 
were for the most part smiling in secret glee, which threat- 
ened every moment to burst forth in riotous laughter. Their 
bright eyes were all turned on Myrtle. Had Myrtle smiled 
ever so faintly they would have broken all restraint but 
Myrtle did not smile, though she felt relieved at the manner 
in which Clara’s bold proclamation was received. 

In the earlier days she had, merely by way of instruc- 
tion, fallen into a way of commenting upon the matter under 
immediate discussion, and this had now become a thing of 
course. All eyes were bent expectantly upon her — Clara’s 
among the number. 

'T think Clara,” said she gravely, ''that your ideas are a 
bit too iconoclastic for the rest of us. Woman has now and 
ever has had the right to select her life companion from out 
of all men, and, having found the one to her liking, she may 
in all modesty show her preference to the man of her choice. 
It is man’s prerogative to seek ; ours the happiness of being 
sought. I fail to see — pardon me, Clara — how we can better 
our condition by robbing him of his inherent right. If a 
woman fails to please, to attract the man of her choice, I am 
very sure that she cannot win him by boldly assuming mascu- 
line tactics, and — and — proposing to him.” 


woman's progressive union in conclave. 219 

She concluded with a little burst of laughter in which the 
others joined right merrily. Clara’s most admirable trait of 
character was her amiable good nature. She did not join in 
the laughter, but she nodded brightly at Myrtle to show that 
while she continued in the same opinion, she did not take her 
friend’s criticism amiss. 

'‘You see, Clara,” continued Myrtle ; "whatever you may 
think this is not a mere conventional question at all. It is 
Nature’s own arrangement. Even from a conventional stand- 
point tfiere is much to be said against it. Man is the bread 
winner and when he proposes marriage to a woman, he in a 
manner sues for the privilege of supporting her through life. 
In the same sense a woman proposing marriage to a man 
would in effect be asking him to support her all her life, and 
this, I imagine would be most humiliating to a woman of 
proper pride. And these conditions can never change. Mar- 
riage means the formation of a home; the wife’s place is in 
that home, while its maintenance depends upon the man. 
Let man retain his prerogative, then. We had better make 
him kneel to us than go on our knees to him. He’s vain 
enough now Heaven knows.” 

“I’m going to propose to the first man I meet*” cried 
Fanny gayly. 

“Very well said Myrtle smiling, “in the meantime it’s 
your turn Fanny.” 

“Oh, Myrtle,” cried Fanny blushing, “you must really 
excuse me this time. I prepared my paper but I forgot to 
bring it with me.” 

This was considered very funny by Fanny’s compan- 
ions, who burst into a shriek of laughter, but Myrtle looked 
quite anxious. It was most important that Fanny should 
make her long promised address, as Myrtle hoped that her 
example would awaken a spirit of emulation among the 
others, or at least serve to encourage the more timid to take 
an active part in the work. 

“Please be good, girls,” said Myrtle beseechingly. “Can 
you not remember what you had to say Fanny?” 

“Yes, but I can’t speak it as well as if I had the paper 
here,” said Fanny. 


220 


THE WATTERSONS. 


'‘Do as well as you can then, dear,'' said Myrtle coax- 
ingly, "but don't disappoint us." 

Fanny could not help giggling a little at first on en- 
countering the many rougish eyes around her, but soon over- 
came this tendency and became quite grave. She was small 
in stature was Fanny and exceedingly pretty, with round 
rosy cheeks and bright dancing eyes — a pronounced bru- 
nette, with a mind of bright intelligence, though its energies 
were now devoted chiefly to mischief-making. 

"I wished to say that we girls are treated unfairly," be- 
gan Fanny, "that is compared to our brothers. We have 
the worst of it in every way. Fve got a twin brother — 
George, whom I love dearly. He's a darling. When we 
were children I used to envy him his independence. Mama 
loved me as much as she did George, but she treated us dif- 
ferently, and that difference constitutes my sole charge 
against the sterner sex. In the morning I had to get up two 
hours earlier than George. I had to help Mama get breakfast 
while George lay sweetly sleeping. He remained in bed until 
long after we — Mama and Papa and I — had breakfasted, be- 
cause Mama thought the dear boy needed sleep so much. 
He was not called until half an hour before school opened, 
which gave him just time to eat his breakfast and be off. 
"Now was that fair?" said Fanny pausing and looking 
around at them all pouting. 

A chorus of negatives answered her. They were all 
smiling and looking at Fanny in eager anticipation. 

"I was obliged not only to tidy up my own room, but 
George's too, while George was out playing," continued the 
droll little rogue. "I didn't like it a bit, but I had to do it 
because 'such work wasn't for boys,' as Mama used to say. 
I need hardly say that George agreed heartily with Mama, 
and looked down upon me with scorn because I was not a 
lordly boy like himself. He always patronized me; he does 
to this day because I am 'only a girl.' I had to be very care- 
ful of my dresses. I was expected to be neat and clean and 
tidy at all times. If I tore my frock, I was not only soundly 
scolded by Mama, but I was obliged to sit down during 
playing hours and mend it. I was supposed to have a place 
for everything and have everything at all times in its place. 


woman's progressive union in conclave. 


221 


Now, George could tear his clothes all to pieces in a fight, 
and Mama would laugh at his account of it, and Papa would 
encourage him to renewed efiforts. He could come in as 
dirty as a little pig, and throw his hat and coat any old 
place, and nothing was said to him. Mama would wash his 
face and hands and pick up his things and place them in 
proper places, ready to his hand. She sewed buttons on 
his shirts, patched his trousers, brushed his hats and blacked 
his boots with the greatest possible patience, and George 
accepted all these attentions like a boy receiving no more 
nor less than his due. He was highly indignant if every- 
thing wasn’t just so. Now, was that fair?” asked Fanny 
again. 

^^No!No!” 

Myrtle could hardly contain herself. Fanny’s plaintive 
tone and pouting expression and laughing eyes were irre- 
sistible. 

'‘I would not have you think that Mama loves George 
more than she does me,” continued Fanny. '‘She does not; 
only somehow this sort of treatment seems to be the proper 
thing. The girl is the slave; the boy the lord. Mama 
expected me to return home instantly after school to assist 
in the house-work, whereas George could stay out until 
supper time, and after supper he could go out again and 
play until bedtime, while I had to stay at home and wash 
the dishes and prepare the bath for George. I was not 
permitted to go on the street after dark, because it wasn’t 
proper for girls. Now, was that fair?” 

"No! No, Fanny!” 

"Well, so it was in everything. George could whisper 
in church and stare around and laugh. At its worst it was 
considered but a misdemeanor in him, but if I attempted 
any of those things it was regarded as a heinous crime. I 
had to study my lessons at night. George didn’t. I had to 
bear myself with rigid politeness in company, but not so 
George. I was always stiffly starched; George was free 
and as careless in his attire as could be. Nevertheless, he 
got three suits of clothes to my one dress. George went to 
college. I stayed at home. George is now working in the 
bank, making ever so much money, which is all his own. 


222 


THE WATTERSONS. 


while I am still at home doing the same old things Tve been 
doing since I was a child. George goes with lots of pretty 
girls, while I must stay at home and wait until some lord 
of creation deigns to notice me, and even then,” added 
Fanny, glancing slyly at Clara, am not permitted to pro- 
pose to him if I like him.” 

A shriek of laughter interrupted Fanny. Her doleful 
tone and tragic expression were inimitable. 

“When I was sick Mama nursed me tenderly and sat 
up nights with me, but I had to be very sick indeed before 
I received these attentions — a mere headache was nothing. 
A high fever at least it had to be before a doctor was to 
be thought of. But if George's little finger ached the whole 
house was in an uproar. Doctors were sent for in all haste, 
and George was put to bed and kept home from school, and 
fed on the daintiest of dishes for weeks at a time, and we 
went about on tip-toe and talked in whispers lest we agitate 
his high mightiness. I am bound to say that George did 
not like all this fuss, but it was made for him and not for 
me. Now, was that fair? ” 

The question was put in such a droll, round-eyed, 
pouting way that it was the funniest part of the whole. 

“And so it was in everything, and so I believe it is in 
most homes. Our mothers train us up to submit to our 
brothers, to look up to them as to beings made of superior 
clay, and no matter how spirited we may naturally be, we 
come to submit, and — and — we like it. Do we not? I 
believe I do. George is a dear, good, sensible boy in spite 
of all this, but does it not naturally follow that being used 
to this adulation all his life he will always expect it? Will 
he not expect his wife to attend upon him, to look up to him 
as his mother and sister have always done? And do you 
think that at this late day I would think of claiming superi- 
ority over a — a man who stood even closer to me than does 
George? I submit to George — willingly, mind you, — loving 
him all the more because he commands me, and I just know 
it will be the same with — with — well, with him!' 

She sat down amid general applause. Mrs. Marble- 
more came forward and kissed the little girl's blushing 
cheeks. She was greatly pleased with the good sense dis- 


woman's progressive union in conclave. 223 

played by Fanny. Myrtle had become very thoughtful 
towards the last, and now sat for a moment gravely regard- 
ing the shrewd little speaker. 

'‘A vote of thanks ought to be tendered Fanny," she 
said," for she has to my mind shown us the fundamental 
cause of the existing standards of the sexes. What is per- 
sistently impressed on us in childhood remains with us 
always. I do not say that this submission of the wife with- 
in the home is to be deplored, but inasmuch as its influ- 
ence extends beyond the home, it emphatically is. The 
father and husband as the guardian and provider should 
undoubtedly be the head of the household, but beyond its 
confines, in matters of public interest, the wife and mother 
should have an equal say. Fanny's comparison might be 
carried much further. How much more is expected of a 
young woman than of a young man. Of a wife than of a 
husband? Of a mother than of a father? How leniently 
the world judges the frailties of John, and how heartily it 
condemns the same in Jane ! A man may fall, but there is 
always a hope of reclaiming him, because all the world is 
willing to give him a chance ; but let a woman take one 
downward step and she is forever lost." 

Mary heard no more — ‘'Let a .woman take one down- 
ward step and she is forever lost ! " The girl’s words 
seemed to sear themselves into her brain ; she rose, clutch- 
ing the chair for support, until a certain black curtain un- 
rolled itself before her eyes ; then, with an inarticulate 
sound, no doubt meant for a word of excuse, she abruptly 
left the room. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


OF A WOMAN THAT FINDS HERSELF. 

Mary hurried homeward with her brain on fire. The 
words of the girl in the room yonder kept ringing in her 
ears like the knell of doom. '‘One step downward and a 
woman is forever lost! ’’ Was it even so? Aye, so it was. 
Tried, judged, condemned beforehand by an inexorable 
world, such a woman could but sink deeper and deeper into 
the mire. There was no hope for her. There could be 
none. She was lost, irredeemably lost ; dead to society ; 
dead to all ennobling emotions — a creature without sex, 
soulless, dirty, despised and despairing. Realizing this to 
the full, Mary was seized with a strange spirit of reckless- 
ness. Her self-tortured mind condemned her as already 
lost. Why should she pretend virtue in the eyes of the 
world — she who was immoral? How dared she pose as 
pure, when purity had long since vanished from her life and 
thoughts? Should she go to The Man who awaited her? 
She saw no joy in it; she would simply be fulfilling her 
destiny. Should she go? 

Mary hurried home the faster, pondering this momen- 
tous question. 

“It is as Aunt Sadie says,’’ she murmured, nearly chok- 
ing as she mounted the steps leading up the magnificent 
entrance to the mansion. “I have lived in immorality so 
long that all shame has left me. My moral sense is blunted. 
Virtue is lost. I am an outcast. Then why struggle 
longer ? ” 

Why, indeed? She could sink no lower in her own 
eyes at least. A servant brought her a note; it was from 
her husband. She opened it with a wildly beating heart. 

“I am called out of town for a few days,” it read, “on 
important business. Will return by Sunday.” 

Mary sat for a long time staring at the paper. It was 
fate. Surely it was fate ! Her husband did not leave 


OF A WOMAN THAT FINDS HERSELF. 225 

home twice in a twelvemonth, but at the very moment when 
his presence might have acted as a restraint upon her he 
was gone. Yes, it was fate. Why resist that which was 
to be? She went upstairs to her chamber, and, sending 
the maid away, she began opening drawers and looking 
through papers, apparently without aim or object. She 
looked at her watch. It was five o’clock. She sat down 
beside an open window to think. At such critical moments 
in life all the past rises clearly before the mind. Mary saw, 
and could have traced, the steps leading downward from 
pure girlhood to her present degraded state. She was a 
morally weak woman; all her life she had yielded to the 
temptation of the moment. 

She saw herself a young girl in a small Ohio town, 
wooed by a man of twice her years. She did not care for 
him as a woman should care for the man she marries, but 
she was a poor girl, and she longed for riches and the 
luxuries that riches bring — a fine house, costly jewels, beau- 
tiful gowns and a limitless purse. These her elderly wooer 
could give her, and stilling her womanly qualms she yielded 
to her baser desires and married him. That was th^ first 
downward step. 

She esteemed her husband, and in time his great kind- 
ness and love won from her a deep affection. Her baby 
came, bringing complete happiness into her life, but almost 
with its birth she lost her husband. The fortune left by 
him was claimed by earlier sons and daughters, and meekly 
yielding to their claims she stepped out of her luxurious 
home and returned to the house of her widowed father, 
happy in the possession of her child. For three years she 
dwelt there happily enough, and then she met the country 
doctor, Richard Watterson, cousin of Winfield, and Sher- 
man’s father, who, carrying her heart by storm, married 
the pretty widow out of hand and took her to live with 
him and his little boy, whom she came to regard with aver- 
sion because he superseded her own passionately loved child 
in her husband’s heart. 

Then followed two years of happiness, marred only by 
the presence of her stepson, and again she was widowed. 
Her father having passed away in the meantime, she was 


226 


THE WATTERSONS. 


left to face the world alone with her son and the brat she 
hated. The cordial invitation extended to her by her hus- 
band’s relatives decided her on coming to Clarenceburg, 
and with the decision the powerful temptation flashed upon 
her to leave behind the hated boy. Again she yielded. Leav- 
ing the child in the care of a maternal uncle, who seemed 
to have conceived a strong attachment for him, she came 
west with her son. Such in brief was Mary’s earlier history. 

Coming to the Watterson’s, she saw in Winfield the 
exact counterpart of the husband she had loved, only graver, 
manlier and more majestic. She fell in love with him at 
sight, or rather her love for her dead husband burst forth 
afresh and wrapped itself about this man who was so mar- 
velously like him. She did everything that a modest woman 
can do to show her love, to win his in return. By a thou- 
sand little tokens she expressed to him her tender regard; 
by a thousand womanly wiles she sought to awaken in him 
a responsive tenderness; but his manner to her, always 
gentle and courteous, never varied. Suitors came in num- 
bers, wooing the lovely widow, but she repulsed them all. 
They went away discouraged — all but one, who persevered 
in the face of open scorn. 

^'When you are married,” he would say, smiling, ''then, 
but not until then, will I give up hope.” 

She admired this tenacity, but would not yield to it. 
For three long years Mr. Marblemore persevered in his 
suit without receiving the slightest encouragement. For 
three long years Mary hid beneath an outward calm a 
raging volcano of passion and desire. And again she yielded 
to the promptings of passion, and, throwing herself at the 
feet of the man she worshiped, she poured out her love and 
prayed for love in return. Even now, with the damp, cold 
touch of approaching degradation upon her, her cheeks 
burned hot with blushes as she recalled that mad scene. 
His keen distress, his agony of mind pained her in the 
recollection. He told her the story of his love dead and 
gone, and in that sorrowful countenance she read the utter 
hopelessness of her pleading. He could never love woman 
more. He made it plain to her that he would marry her 
if she desired, but even then he would go on loving the wife 


OF A WOMAN THAT FINDS HERSELF. 227 

cf his youth. Under such circumstances her life with him 
would be a mockery. Rather than hold second place in the 
heart of the man she worshiped, she would give herself to 
the man she scorned, but who loved her. 

She wept tears of shame and anguish that night, but 
the next day she promised her hand to her persevering 
suitor. And she married him in spite of her dull, aching 
heart, in spite of Winfield’s grave looks, in spite of her 
scorn and loathing of self. She married him and lived with 
him in loveless union, nursing in secret her passion through 
all the years of her married life. In reality her love for 
Winfield had long since vanished, though only of late, since 
the advent of The Man had she come to realize this truth. 
That which she so long had worshiped in secret was not 
Winfield, but a distorted image of herself, born of her 
brooding thoughts dwelling constantly upon the wrong 
which fate had practiced upon her. The sight of Win- 
field no longer stirred in her that painful yet exquisite 
emotion which his image had called up in bygone years. 
Her heart had long been void when The Man came into her 
life, filling her mind with unchaste thoughts ; her heart with 
impure desires. 

Void it was because she had taught herself to regard 
her husband with aversion. She had schooled herself to 
regard him through those baser traits which he in common 
with all men possessed; and in this contemplation, which 
awakened all her scorn and abhorrence, she lost sight of 
the banker’s many great and noble qualities. And so, steel- 
ing her heart against him, his great love begot no love in 
return. His unceasing kindness to herself and son had 
made easier of endurance her life with him, but that was all. 

And now she stood upon the brink of the chasm 
towards which all her life she had been tending. Her 
legalized immorality, extending over many years, had 
stamped out all womanly delicacy and shame. The habit of 
weakly yielding to ignoble impulse in smaller things had 
inevitably prepared her for the final plunge. The Man 
was now awaiting her — The Man who, recognizing a kin- 
dred spirit, had boldly raised his eyes to hers. She would 
go to him; she loved him, or what was this mad desire 


228 


THE WATTERSONS. 


impelling her to him? Yes, she loved him — and yet — and 
yet — she glanced down at the hand which he had kissed, 
and her mouth drooped with a strange repugnance, and 
an involuntary shudder ran through her body. She started 
up suddenly and, going to a small stand in a corner, she 
washed that hand again, as she had washed it many times 
since that occurrence, under the strange impression that it 
was soiled, although it looked beautifully white and sweet. 

Mary was in reality an innocent woman. Her mind 
was so pure that it shrank by instinct from that which was 
impure ; but she did not know herself. She had a distorted 
image of herself, born of constant brooding on her hapless 
state, which filled her with scorn and loathing. In a spirit 
of madness, born of fierce rebellion against conspiring fate, 
she had given herself into the keeping of a man she did not 
love; had lived with him in closest intimacy while loving 
another man, and realizing with all the horror of a pure 
and sensitive nature the immorality of her life, she had come 
to believe herself corrupt to the core. In this spirit The Man 
had found her. Fascinated by a personality so sparkling 
and vivacious, so widely different from her own, charmed 
by an audacity such as she had never encountered, she had 
allowed her thoughts to dwell upon him to her own undoing. 
She did not shrink away on discovering his designs. Why 
should she? Was she not base? Was she not innately 
immoral? The Man would never have dared to raise his 
eyes to her had he not recognized in her a kindred spirit. 
It was fate, the fate toward which she had all her life been 
tending. She could not escape it she firmly believed. And 
yet she had resisted fiercely, but to what avail? After two 
days and nights of desperate conflict, in which she had 
called in every possible auxiliary to her aid, here she was 
weakly yielding again. 

A clock struck in an inner room. Six o'clock ! Hastily 
adjusting a heavy veil to her hat, she drew on her gloves 
with trembling fingers. The last train passed through the 
city at six-twenty, she knew, for had not he so instructed 
her? She hastened down-stairs, and without pause made 
for the outer door. With her hand on the handle, she 
hesitated as if struck by a sudden thought. Turning around 


OF A WOMAN THAT FINDS HERSELF. 229 

slowly she retraced her steps, going not to her chamber now, 
but to her husband’s room adjoining. Pausing upon the 
threshold she gazed around with a strange expression in 
her eyes. How bleak it looked ! How bare of elegance and 
luxury ! The banker despised the gewgaws which he pro- 
vided so lavishly for his loved ones. Mary went into the 
room and with a gentle touch placed various trifling things 
aright. Upon a stand she beheld a picture of herself, a 
photograph taken years before. A wave of color swept 
through her cheeks. She caught it up with a spund very 
like a sob and laid it face downward upon the table. 

One last look she cast around. The curtains which 
screened the bed were looped back, revealing the huge pil- 
lows and snow-white coverlet. She advanced a step, and 
with outstretched hand she touched the pillow, then turned 
and fled from the room and from the house. 

Many people were on the street. She passed them by 
without a glance. She turned into the square, all alive now 
with the bustle that marked the end of the working day, 
and without a glance to the right or left continued on 
around, following from force of habit the course that led 
past her husband’s bank. She cast a furtive glance at the 
bank in passing, and paused with an exclamation of sur- 
prise at once and pleasure. 

Standing upon the broad threshold she beheld a youth 
well known to her as a relative of her husband’s first wife, 
an awkward, freckled-faced boy of sixteen, fresh from the 
farm. He wore a new suit of clothes, a new hat and new 
shoes, and wore them with an air of mingled shame and 
pride. He stood beaming out upon the world in a state 
of bashful bliss impossible to describe. At sight of Mary 
he started and, blushing to the ears, he advanced a step or 
two, holding out his hand. Mary loved this brave boy, 
whom she knew to be the sole support of an aged mother 
and three or four small brothers and sisters. 

‘'Why, Harold ! ” she cried, raising her veil the better 
to note his handsome appearance. “How nice you look. 
My! My!” 

“Cousin Andrew bought them,” cried the bashful 
youngster, blushing and nearly crying in mingled shame 


230 


THE WATTERSONS. 


and pride and joy. ‘'I stopped in to see him, being here, 
’cause mother always wants me to, and he insisted on it so, 
and won’t mother be pleased and proud? He bought a 
dress for mother, too, and a suit of clothes for Jackson 
and two dresses apiece for Lottie and Flora and a big doll 
for each; and, see, he got me a watch — gold it is— and 
shoes and hats, and, oh, everything — a big wagon-load! 
Ain’t he a jolly brick? He laughed and laughed all the time, 
and I didn’t dare say no to anything, ’cause whenever I 
dared to ppen my mouth he started in all over again and 
bought and bought, until I didn’t know what to do. A 
jolly brick, I call him! ” 

All of which Harold poured out in a breath, glowing 
in a rapture of mingled gratitude and admiration, in which, 
too, was blended some slight feeling of shame that he should 
have allowed his generous cousin to prevail upon him to 
accept this profusion. 

Mary stood regarding the boy with an expression so 
strange that Harold paused; but perceiving presently that 
she was smiling faintly down at him, he continued in more 
subdued tones: 

‘^He asked me to come around again, so that he could 
see me in my new clothes,” he said, ^'and now he’s gone, and 
the bank’s closed.” 

‘'He was called away very suddenly, Harold,” replied 
Mary with trembling lips. “I’m afraid he forgot about you 
in his hurry.” 

“Oh ! ” 

“But you must come up to the house, my dear,” con- 
tinued Mary kindly. 

“I can’t this time. Cousin Mary,” replied Harold; “but 
next time I will. Sure ! I’ve got to go home now, and it’s 
a fifteen-mile drive, you know. And, oh, just think! 
Cousin Andrew is going to help me pay my way through 
college. I’m going to be a preacher, you know — a minister, 
I mean. Won’t mother be proud?” 

“I’m very glad, Harold,” said Mary hurriedly, “but I 
can’t stay now. Remember me to your mother. Good-bye.” 

She hurried onward, agitated by conflicting emotions. 
It was altogether curious that all this time Mary had 


OF A WOMAN THAT FINDS HERSELF. 


231 


thought of her husband only in the abstract, as a figure to 
be pushed aside for The Man. Of her son, of those other 
victims, The Man’s wife and children, of her friends and 
neighbors, she thought not at all. The one thought of The 
Man awaiting her and of the terrible fate that impelled her 
irresistibly towards him, was so overpowering, that it drove 
out all surrounding objects. But the sight of this boy, so 
happy and grateful, his artless story of her husband’s good- 
ness and generosity, arrested for a moment that one domi- 
nant idea and turned her thoughts fully upon him. How 
good he was, how uniformly kind and generous ! How 
loving to her always ! How openhanded to all ! And was 
this to be her return? She asked herself this question with 
deepening horror and self-loathing. 

In imagination she saw her husband alone and deso- 
late, disgraced and deserted by her whom he had loved so 
dearly. As this appalling picture flashed across her mind 
she felt a shock as of awakening remorse and pity. A great 
wave of tenderness for him, her husband, swept over her. 
She paused irresolutely — then slowly went on. She turned 
off the corner, her pace quickening. She was thinking not 
of The Man now ; but of her husband. 

Seeing him in the light in which her imagination now 
pictured him, she for the first time saw him as he really 
was. The external man had never been repellant to her; 
in his thick burliness he reminded her much of her father. 
It was the inner man that she had loathed — that greedy, 
grasping, arrogant spirit that animated him, coloring his 
every action. And yet — was he greedy and grasping? Was 
he not on the contrary the most generous of men? Did he 
not give with open hand to church and charity? It was 
not greed of gold that animated him, but love of power. 
And was not this a proper, even a noble, sentiment? All 
men love power, and women love men of power and admire 
them extravagantly. As for his arrogance and pride — 
had not he the right to be proud of the wealth and power 
which he had gained by the might of his own mind? All 
this flashed upon Mary in a single moment’s time, and in 
that moment her husband was transformed in her eyes. He 
was a great man and growing greater every day. He was 


THE WATTERSONS. 


232 

a good man, a man of pure life. He was a just man, in 
every way worthy of the regard, the love, of a good woman. 
And she was his wife ; he was her husband ! 

''And I — and I Mary paused suddenly, chilled to 
the heart by the thought of her unworthiness. For one 
moment she stood quite still. People passing and repassing 
on the street, hurrying homeward from the day’s work, saw 
only a woman plunged in the depths of irresolution. Noth- 
ing more. But she — she stood shrinking on the brink of a 
dreadful abyss, striving desperately to withdraw, yet more 
than half convinced that it was too late. Could she turn 
back now? Could she begin life once more, pure and un- 
defiled? "One step downward and a woman is forever 
lost.” But she had not taken that fatal step ! Thank God ! 
Thank God ! A feeling of devout gratitude swelled Mary’s 
heart almost to bursting. 

"It is a miracle,” she murmured, walking on once more, 
so deeply absorbed in thought that she was wholly uncon- 
scious of her movements. 

What mad idiocy to mistake so long the meaning of her 
doubting heart ! Until The Man had come into her life she 
had fancied herself in love with Winfield. That feeling had 
dominated her every thought for so long that it had be- 
come a habit, blinding her to all else, so that long after it 
had ceased to disturb her she had continued, unconscious 
of any change, until the tempter came, proving by the fasci- 
nation which he exercised over her that she had long since 
been weaned from Winfield. And yet she did not love The 
Man ! All that was best in her nature cried out against him. 
She thought of her husband, and a strange sensation of hap- 
piness came stealing over her, sweet at once and painful, 
gripping her heart like bands of burning steel. A certain 
glowing gladness she felt, a certain shame and pride, an 
all-pervading tenderness, so deep, so vivid, so wondrous in 
its sweeping sway that Mary thrilled and thrilled to the 
very center of her being. Strangely familiar that emotion 
seemed, spite of its astounding newness familiar and dear, 
as if for long years it had dwelt all unknown within her 
bosom. A thousand little things came flashing across her 
mind to bear out the thought. She recalled moments of 


OF A WOMAN THAT FINDS HERSELF. 


233 


tenderness now which at the time she had mistaken for 
pity; loving ministrations, which she had thought inspired 
purely by remorse. She remembered hours of tranquil 
happiness in his society, and 'with growing wonder mar- 
velled that she should have continued blind so long. 

She felt a quaking at her heart now at the thought of 
facing her husband, of meeting those honest eyes which 
regarded her so tenderly. How cold she had been to him ! 
How indififerent to the great love which he lavished upon 
her ! She glowed with pride and tenderness now, thinking 
of that love. Ah ! how different their future life should be ! 

The train was coming in ; she heard its rush and rum- 
ble ; she saw it a hundred yards away dashing across the 
street. It came to a standstill at the station. She hurried, 
almost running onward, animated by a different purpose 
now. Other people were hurrying in the same direction. 
Men were loitering on the long platform. Women, too, 
were there, and children, gazing curiously at the huge 
coaches. She knew them all and she was known to all. She 
was heavily veiled, but her incomparable form and grace 
of movement were sufficient to betray her identity ; and, as 
if to emphasize her presence there, as if glorying in the fact, 
she threw back her veil, disclosing her features to the 
general gaze. Her cheeks were red; her eyes shone with 
excitement and triumph ; her bosom rose and fell in stormy 
emotion. She passed in feverish haste the various groups 
of loiterers, and, reaching the door of the station house, 
she turned around and gazed at the long train, and her 
glance was a glance of triumphant defiance ! 

''Train starts in five minutes! 

She heard the shout, but did not stir. Motionless she 
stood just where she had stationed herself, gazing at the 
train, enjoying with an almost childish glee her victory. 
She was, as it were, testing her strength of mind and pur- 
pose; she believed herself yet mysteriously drawn to The 
Man, for the time had been too brief and her heart too full 
of conflicting emotions to admit of other than mere instinc- 
tive action. Her mind as yet was in too confused and cha- 
otic a state to give her a clear conception of her true feel- 
ings. She felt deeply ashamed and remorseful, yet glori- 


234 


THE WATTERSONS. 


ously happy as she stood there tingling from head to foot, 
as if new blood had in some mysterious manner been infused 
into her veins. 

The bustle and clamor were prodigious. Men in uni- 
form were running in all directions. Travelers were clam- 
bering into the coaches, the voice of the conductor admon- 
ishing them to greater exertions. Vans, busses, carriages 
and vehicles of all kinds were driving up, and the hoarse 
voices of their drivers recommending their various hostel- 
ries mingled with the sound of escaping steam and clanging 
bells and rumbling trucks. The bell rang out more sharply 
and slowly, the train started — the train that had been about 
to bear her to destruction. She stood watching it as it 
gathered speed. She followed it with her eyes as it went 
dashing onward out of sight. It was gone, and she was 
saved. She turned away with a prayer of thankfulness upon 
her lips, a bubbling spring of new-found happiness in her 
heart. She had found herself. 

''Were you expecting someone?’’ asked a voice almost 
in her ear. 

She turned, startled, to be confronted by Mrs. Rose- 
wood’s smiling face. 

"No,” she said quietly. 

"I didn’t know. You have been standing here quite a 
while. Are you going home ? ” 

"Yes,” said Mary, smiling very brightly. "I’m going 
home.” 

They walked towards the square side by side. 

"Did you know that Mrs. Ringrose was down sick?” 
asked Mrs. Rosewood after a moment of silence. 

"No,” said Mary, glancing quickly at the smiling 
little woman. 

"Yes. Another baby. Aunt Sadie was there all the 
afternoon. Mr. Ringrose is away, too ! What a pity ! When 
does he return ? ” 

"I don’t know. How should I know ? ” said Mary, 
quite angrily. 

"I thought you might,” replied Mrs. Rosewood, coolly. 
"Good-bye.” 


OF A WOMAN THAT FINDS' HERSELF. 235 

She stood for a moment at the foot of the lawn, gazing 
after the banker’s lady, with a sneer of scorn. 

When Mary reached the mansion she learned to her 
surprise that Mr. Marblemore was at home. He was in 
his room in the tower, busied with his mechanical experi- 
ments. She went upstairs, wondering very much what had 
caused the change in his plans. A half hour later, dressed 
in a pretty wrapper, she went into that little room in which 
her husband spent all his leisure hours, puzzling over in- 
tricate mechanical problems. Mary was a rare visitor there. 
She gazed around curiously at the bits of queer machinery, 
the crucibles, tools, oddly constructed contrivances of all 
kinds, which gave Mr. Marblemore such keen pleasure. 
He sat with his back to the door at a narrow bench, bend- 
ing over a bit of mechanism, so deeply abstracted that he 
failed to hear her entrance or approach. She stood behind 
him for some moments, looking down at him, and her glance 
was very tender. She was deeply, deeply ashamed and 
repentant. She longed, seeing him sitting there, the living 
embodiment of truth and trust and love and honor — she 
longed to throw herself at his feet and pour out her shame- 
ful and humiliating confession, and beg his forgiveness. 
She longed to do this, but she was not so foolish. Instead, 
she came up behind and, placing her arm upon his broad 
shoulder, startled him out of his abstraction. 

'‘Why, Mary ! '' he said looking up and smiling. 

“You did not go away, Andrew, after all?'' she said, 
still remaining with her arm resting upon his shoulder. 

“No, Mary; I was urgently wanted at Peoria on a 
matter of business, but at the last moment I received word 
by wire that it was carried through without me." 

“I am glad." 

“Are you, Mary? Really glad? " 

“Yes, Andrew. What is that machine for, Andrew?" 

Greatly delighted with the interest she showed, he ex- 
plained it to her at length. 

“It is only by way of improvement, you know," he 
said, smiling, “not an original invention. In fact, my dear, 
I am utterly incapable of conceiving anything ; but give me 
a bit of mechanism, with a definite idea of what it is — its 


236 


THE WATTERSONS. 


uses and purposes, you understand — and I can study out a 
thousand improvements. Rather curious, Mary, the run of 
men’s minds,” he continued musingly. ^‘In business, for 
example, I can conceive the most gigantic and far-reaching 
schemes, plan them down to the furthermost detail, and 
place them upon a sure foundation; while Davidson, who 
never had, and never will have, an original thought, can 
carry out the greatest with the most admirable ease and 
finish. It is all in the quality of mind, my dear. Standing 
alone, Davidson would fail, as he has failed repeatedly, but 
working under my direction, executing my schemes, he 
never fails. It follows, therefore, that my mind is of a 
higher order than is Davidson’s. Yet here in the realm of 
invention, I take Davidson’s place ; the mind of the man 
who can think along original lines, who can conceive, in 
short, is as much above mine, as mine is above my assistant 
in business. And so, going higher still into the realms of 
art, one could, by a process of reasoning, arrive at what is, 
or was, the very greatest mind in the world. All of which 
is beside the mark, I know,” he ended laughing. 

''You never take any rest, Andrew,” said Mary. "You 
must not work so hard.” 

"This is not work, Mary. It is my one great pleasure, 
as you, Mary,” he added, kissing her hand, "are my one 
great happiness.” 

To his great astonishment she burst into a passion of 
tears at this, and with her head resting on his shoulder she 
cried and sobbed like a child. 

"Why, Mary ! ” he cried all aghast. 

"Let us go away, Andrew,” she said, looking implor- 
ingly at him through her tears. 

"I can not get away, my dear,” he replied. "But why 
not go alone, or with the children, Mary? Go where you 
like and enjoy yourself, and return to me when you are 
tired.” 

"I will not go without you, Andrew, but I do wish you 
could so arrange your business as to give you a holiday now 
and then, like other men.” 

The banker shook his head, smiling. He could have 
done as other men did by confining his business to the limits 


OF A WOMAN THAT FINDS HERSELF. 


237 


bounding theirs, but his ambition was too boundless, his 
mental energy too great to admit of that. But Mary's ten- 
der solicitude filled him with the deepest joy and gratitude. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ENTERTAINS. 

It was Sunday, and guests were expected at General 
Hamilton’s. Mam Sue was in her glory as she waddled 
about the little kitchen preparing dinner. Her fat, shining 
face was wrinkled into a thousand folds, and every fold a 
smile. Benjamin sat near by, softly strumming on a banjo 
and singing to himself, with a far-away look in his sleepy 
eyes. Every now and then he would twang the strings 
loudly and burst into a long-drawn wailing note, which 
gradually died away in his throat, and all that told of the 
continuation of the song was the negro’s moving lips. It 
sounded very weird and plaintive, that long-drawn wail, 
echoing in that snug back kitchen, far removed from the 
singer’s native clime. Mam Sue paused at every recur- 
rence of the outburst and, with spoon or ladle suspended, 
turned her head in a listening attitude, not towards, but 
away from Benjamin, as though harkening to a sound from 
far away. At such times the smiles died out of her glisten- 
ing face, which became sad in expression, and when Ben- 
jamin’s deep voice rose weirder than usual, she stamped 
her feet and waved her arms, and with body swaying and 
head bobbing she accompanied in sympathetic motion the 
wordless song for minutes afterward. 

'^No mo,’ Benjy, no mo’,” she said at last in a beseech- 
ing tone. “I clecla’ it makes me mos’ ’stracted.” 

Benjy ceased, and, carefully placing the instrument in 
a corner, he slowly filled a short clay pipe and still with 
that far-away look in his sleepy eyes, sat silently smoking 
and dreaming. 

''Wha’ dat Dan’l,” said Mam Sue, going to the door. 
‘^Oh, Dan’l ! ” 

‘'Oh, Mama ! ” replied Daniel, laughing as he came 
around the corner. 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ENTERTAINS. • 239 

Mam Sue, who had been frowning prodigiously, broke 
into a hundred smiles at sight of her son. 

''Stay he'ah. Band,’’ she said. "Yo' got to he’p Mammy. 
Massa Dave’s gwine to hab company.” 

"All right, Mammy,” said Daniel, throwing himself 
down beside his father and leaning back against him with 
a composure that charmed his mother. 

"Look at dat now ! ” she exclaimed admiringly as Ben- 
jamin placed his arm around the boy and drew him closer. 
"Dat dar’ boy am gittin’ mo’ like the white folk eve’y day. 
I decla’ he am.” 

"Oh, I wish I was in Va’ginee,” said Daniel, sighing. 

"Ah! child, so we all does,” said Benjamin. 

"Yo’ wish yo’ ’es in Va’ginee,” cried Mam Sue laugh- 
ing. "Gowan away, chile. What yo’ know about Va’ ginee? 
Yo’se bawn he’ah. Yah! Yah! Yah! Oh, Lawd Gawd! 
Yah! Yah! Yah!” 

She stood before them, her fat arms akimbo, shaking 
with laughter. 

"Pap tells me about Va’ginee,” said Daniel. "Don’t 
yo’. Pap?” 

Pap nodded, and Mam Sue, still laughing, went about 
her work. Having finished the pipe, Benjamin knocked the 
ashes out and rose to prepare for his coming duties. Daniel 
coaxed Carlo into the kitchen, and together they lay down 
in a corner on terms of perfect equality. Mam Sue went in 
to see the General, after first smoothing her dress and 
properly adjusting the knots in the red bandana ’kerchief 
which invariably covered her gray-grown wool. The Gen- 
eral sat in an arm-chair on the verandah, for the weather 
still was mild and balmy. Mam Sue stood in the doorway 
for a while, gazing down at her master with pride and 
affection. He looked a very handsome and courtly old gen- 
tleman, sitting there, thoughtfully tugging at his shaggy 
mustache with his one small white hand. 

"Is Missy Rosie cornin’, too, Massa Dave?” asked 
Mam Sue, after a preparatory cough or two. 

"Yes,” replied the General, smiling kindly upon his old 
servant. "Yes, little Dimples is coming. Mam Sue.” 

"Ah’se glad. An’ Aunt Sadie ? ” 


240 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Yes, and the Majah and Miss Myrtle and Mastah 
Sherman. Mrs. Rosewood, too, pu’haps, though I ha’dly 
think so.’’ 

"Lawd, Gawd, Mas’ Dave ! ” cried Mam Sue, throwing 
up both her hands in horror. "Wha’ fo’ yo’ want to ’vite all 
dem folks ? I cla’ to goodness. Mas’ Dave, Ah’se got nothin’ 
fo’ dey all to eat.” 

"Come, come. Mam Sue,” said the General, smiling, 
"I know better than that.” 

"Cla’ to goodness. Mas’ Dave, Ah ain’t,” said Mam 
Sue, shaking with laughter as she went waddling back to 
her kitchen. 

A moment later a carriage drove up to the gate, and 
the General advanced with bared head to receive his guests. 

"Welcome, Mistress Sadie,” he said, bowing over that 
smiling lady’s hand. "Welcome, Majah. Miss Myrtle, I 
am deeply honohed. Boy yo’ hand. We shall be a small 
family pa’ty,” Continued the General cordially as he led the 
way into the house. "I expect but one or two othehs. Lit- 
tle Dimples is yet to come — see here she is.” 

She came in rosy and panting, having walked all the 
way from church. She looked as neat and sweet and modest 
as usual as she went up to the General. 

"Mama can’t come. General,” she said softly; "she 
isn’t feeling very well.” 

Then she advanced shyly to offer her hand to Mr. Wat- 
terson, whose majestic stateliness and grave face always 
awed the little maid. 

"My gracious ! child,” said Aunt Sadie. "Why didn’t 
you tell us you were coming? We could have brought you 
in the carriage.” 

"I like walking. Aunt Sadie,” said Rosie, seeking to 
escape all further notice by hiding behind Myrtle. 

"I haven’t had my kiss yet, Rosie,” said Sherman, ap- 
proaching. 

"For shame, Sherman,” said Rosie, laughing. "Aren’t 
you jealous. Myrtle? ” 

"No,” said Myrtle, shaking her head with amazing 
vehemence, "not the least little bit in the world.” 

She drew Rosie down beside her, and Sherman went to 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ENTERTAINS. 24I 

join his uncle, who, with Aunt Sadie and the General, had 
retired into a neighboring window, where they stood chat- 
ting. 

''Isn’t somebody going to be married soon ? ’’ asked 
Myrtle, smiling. 

"No, Myrtle,'’ said Rosie, blushing; "that is, I don't 
know." 

"I hope so. A certain young man is very devoted to 
somebody." 

She wondered at Rosie's distressed little face, but 
thought it only the natural uneasiness caused by hope 
deferred. 

"He will speak soon, Rosie," she said soothingly. "He 
cannot resist my sweet little friend." 

Rosie beamed more brightly then and said : "But when 
will you be married. Myrtle ? " 

"Oh, not for years and years yet," replied Myrtle, shak- 
ing her head with much determination. 

"Oh, but Sherman will not wait," said Rosie sagely. 
"Look, he can't keep his eyes off of you for a single minute. 
Do look. Myrtle." 

But Myrtle would not look. She laughed and bent 
down her head to hide the rosy color that mounted to her 
cheeks. 

"See, you will not look at him, so he is coming," said 
Rosie. 

Sherman, impatient and unhappy away from his sweet- 
heart's side, did indeed come up at that moment, and 
Rosie with a kind little glance rose in spite of Myrtle's 
detaining grasp, saying that she must speak to Mam Sue. 
Sherman promptly took possession of the seat she vacated 
and without a moment's loss of time fell a wooing his sweet- 
heart. Myrtle shook her head, frowned, laughed, placed 
her hands over her ears, and said "For shame, Sherman," 
quite sternly, but she could not stay the ardent youth's 
glowing words of love and passionate endearment, nor did 
she try for long, so sweet was the voice and caressing and 
tender, that she inclined her head more and more to catch 
its faintest note, and before long, oblivious to all the world 
around them, they were sitting with hands clasped and heads 


242 


THE WATTERSONS. 


close together. Aunt Sadie, observing their tender attitude, 
plucked her brother by the sleeve and with her eyes directed 
the General’s attention to the loving pair. The delighted 
lady had to press both hands to her mouth to smother the 
shriek of glee that involuntarily rose to her lips, and even 
then she exploded once or twice spasmodically. 

Rosie, hurrying into the kitchen, was received with in- 
tense delight by Mam Sue. 

^'Do you love me. Mam Sue?” said Rosie, throwing 
herself into the black woman’s arms. 

“Does I lub yo’. Honey?” blubbered Mam Sue. “I 
does. Honey, ’deed I does.” 

Daniel woke up in his corner, and Carlo, opening his 
eyes at the same moment, stretched himself sleepily and 
went stalking with slow, majestic steps into the drawing 
room. j 

“I shall never cease admiring the simplicity of every- 
thing in your house. General,” Aunt Sadie was saying, 
when Benjamin appeared in immaculate attire. 

“Dinnah is ready, suh,” he said, bowing to the ground. 

The General gave his arm to Aunt Sadie and led the 
way into the dining-room. Mr. Watterson followed with 
Myrtle, and Sherman with little Rosie on his arm brought 
up the rear. They gathered around the snowy board, and at 
a nod from his master, Benjamin solemnly began his duties 
by removing the cover of a dish of vast dimensions placed 
in front of Mr. Watterson. 

“Majah,” said the General, with a smiling glance at 
his one hand, “I must call upon you.” 

Mr. Watterson took up the carving knife and fork 
with the air of a man favored beyond his deserts. 

“Isn’t this delightful, though ? ” said Aunt Sadie, beam- 
ing around at them all. “I love all my friends dearly, but 
I do not love one well enough to wish to share with her 
the General’s hospitality this day. I do wish, though, that 
Mary were here, and Clara, and Mrs. Thompson, and — ” 

“Hold, Sadie,” cried Mr. Watterson. “No more, no 
more ! ” 

“But it is so nice to have lots of friends around one,” 
said Aunt Sadie, comfortably. “Isn’t it now, General? ” 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ENTERTAINS. 243 

The dinner was excellent throughout. Mam Sue had 
quite outdone herself. Whatever the financial condition 
of the Chronicle, the General’s larder bespoke profusion and 
plenty. Benjamin, conscious of his son’s bright eyes behind 
the kitchen door, set the lad a noble example in dignity of 
deportment, in quickness of foot and deftness of hand. 

^'Mam Sue is a treasure. General,” said the Major. 

The General, well aware that Mam Sue was listening 
with all her ears behind the kitchen door, smiled, delighted 
with the Major’s appreciation. 

''She is, Majah,” he said, "but I neva’ tell her so.” 

"Now that is wrong. General — pardon me,” said Aunt 
Sadie gravely. "A word of praise should be given when it 
is deserved.” 

"I’m going to steal Mam Sue some day,” cried Sher- 
man gayly. 

"Sherman is going to leave us, Majah,” said the Gen- 
eral. "Chicago is his goal. He is ambitious to become a 
great jo’nalist.” 

"This is news, indeed,” cried Mr. Watterson, smiling 
broadly. "How long has that idea been in your mind, 
Sherman? ” 

"Oh, I was only thinking about it,” said Sherman, 
looking down to avoid Aunt Sadie’s astonished gaze and 
Myrtle’s searching glance. "I was talking to Farraday, and 
I think there’s a field for me there. All one requires is 
patience, pluck and perseverance.” 

Myrtle smiled. These were three qualities which the 
lad above all others lacked. Patience he had of the nobler 
kind, and force and physical courage a plenty, but the 
patience and pluck and perseverance required to work 
slowly and painfully from the bottom rung of the ladder 
upward were not his. Poor Aunt Sadie, chilled to the 
heart at the mere thought of losing her boy, patted her hair 
very hard, looking eagerly across at Sherman. Meeting her 
anxious eyes and fearful of spoiling her pleasure for the day, 
he smiled reassuringly and shook his head, and Aunt Sadie, 
breathing deeply, became exceedingly cheerful once more. 

Benjamin had just placed the coffee upon the table and 
was standing at ease behind his master’s chair, when a foot- 


1 


244 the wattersons. 

step sounded without, crossing the floor of the adjoining \ 
room, and the next moment Elmer appeared in the doorway. | 
“Am I too late he cried gayly. I 

A slight shadow passed across the General’s face, but | 
it cleared directly, and, rising, he commanded Benjamin to f 
lay another plate. ^ 

“By no means. General,” cried Elmer. “I have just : 
dined. Do not put yourself out on my account in the least, i 
I will but beg a cup of that fragrant coffee of Benjamin’s.” | 
“Draw up your cha’h, suh,” said the General. ; 

“No, no; I’ll sit right here; thank you Benjamin.” i 
The General reluctantly resumed his place and tried to^ 
start the conversation anew, but the graceless young man’s ; 
abrupt appearance had somehow cast a restraint over the 
erstwhile cheerful company. Elmer, however, plunged 
blithely into the breach and in his own inimitably droll 
way gradually won them to smiling again, the more so as 
one and all suspected that his presence there was owing to, 
the blooming little creature sitting so quietly and modestly; 
beside Sherman. She had colored deeply at the sound of his 
voice, but as no one had looked in her direction her em- 
barrassment gradually abated, and while Elmer was talking 
she cast little furtive glances at him, glances of the deepest 
tenderness and admiration. 

“I know. General,” said Elmer, “that when I explain 
the cause of my intrusion you will pardon me. Having re-i 
solved to spend an hour or two with my best and sweetest 
friend, I called at her home only to learn to my dismay that 
she was away for the day. Franklin very kindly informed 
me where I would find her, and, being one of those fellows^ 
who stop at nothing to gain a desired end, I at once detern 
mined to take your castle by storm, and here I am. Aunt' 
Sadie’s most devoted slave and admirer.” 

“You are welcome, my lad,” said the General again. ^ 
Aunt Sadie beamed a bright assent. ; 

They rose presently and went out upon the lawn. A^ 
gentle breeze came sweeping in across the vast surrounding' 
prairies ; fleecy clouds of gauzy thinness overspread the 
sky, dimming the brightness of the sun and tempering its 
rays to a pleasant mildness. The vast lawn was thickly 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ENTERTAINS. 245 

dotted with trees and clumps of shrubbery, still clothed in 
velvety green. The General with Aunt Sadie and Sherman 
went strolling among the trees. Myrtle, with Rosie and 
Elmer, followed slowly. Mr. Watterson fell behind the 
others. He walked very slowly, with his hands clasped be- 
hind him and his head bent in deep thought. Arriving at 
a spot comparatively clear, he paused and stood gazing pen- 
sively across into the neighboring cemetery. He remained 
for a long time motionless, looking in the one direction. 
His expression was sad, his eyes moist with emotion. He 
felt a pair of little hands clasping his arm, and passing his 
hand over his brow like one awakening from a sleep, he 
looked down into the eyes of his daughter. 

'Tapa,’' she said, very softly, 'Tapa ! 

There were oceans of love, of tender sympathy and sor- 
row in the single word. He patted her hand gently and 
smiled. 

‘'You are very like your mother, my love,’’ he said. 

He drew her hand through his arm, and they followed 
the General and Aunt Sadie. 

Elmer had attached himself to Rosie, who was walking 
by his side with downcast eyes and blushing cheeks. 

‘T am coming to see you tonight, Rosie,” said Elmer 
softly. “May I?” 

“I — I don’t know,” faltered Rosie. 

“Don’t know ! ” echoed Elmer. “Oh, Rosie, you used 
to be glad to see me !^’ 

“I am now,” she cried, pressing hard upon his arm with 
her little hand ; “that is, I would be if — oh, Elmer ! You 
know why,” she broke off with a sudden rush of blinding 
tears. 

He drew her behind some screening bushes and softly 
kissed her. 

“What do I know, Rosie ? ” 

“That I can no longer receive you,” sobbed Rosie, striv- 
ing to quell her agitation. “Not as a modest girl, I mean.” 

“Now, Rosie, don’t be a foolish little girl. Didn’t you 
promise to marry me ? ” 

“Yes,” breathed Rosie, “but — but — ” 


246 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘‘And you can’t receive your future husband? Why, 
Rosie, what do you mean ? ” 

He knew well what she meant, and she knew, having 
bitter cause to know. She said no more, but gazed up into 
his eyes adoringly. 

“Come, dear, let us follow the others,” said Elmer. “Do 
you not trust me, Rosie?” 

“Yes, Elmer,” she replied, breathlessly. 

“And may I come tonight ? ” 

“I — Em afraid, Elmer ! ” replied the girl with a little 
gasp; but she squeezed his arm very hard with her little 
hands. 

“Afraid of your own Elmer, Rosie ? ” he said reproach- 
fully. “What can you be afraid of? ” 

Whatever it was she could not give it tongue. She 
remained silent, and Elmer whispered as they came up 
with the others, “I shall come tonight, Rosie, and I shall 
expect to find you at home.” 

Having completed the circuit of the yard, the various 
parties returned to the verandah. Daniel brought out chairs 
for all, but only the General, Mr. Watterson and Myrtle 
availed themselves of them. Aunt Sadie, waving a gay 
farewell over her shoulder, carried her boy off again, having 
determined to spend half an hour or so with a neighboring 
lady. Rosie slipped quietly into the kitchen to talk with 
Mam Sue, and Elmer seated himself on the edge of the 
verandah with his legs dangling in his usual careless fashion. 

“The city is creeping out on you. General,” said Mr. 
Watterson, glancing at the nearest house a hundred yards 
away. 

“Yes,” replied the General, frowning. “I thought when 
I pitched my tent out here that the solitude would last my 
time, but the town is growing rapidly. It is branching out 
in all directions quite as freely as in this.” 

“High time we were having a street railway, then,” 
cried Elmer, pertly. 

The General laughed good-humoredly. He had de- 
feated that project for the time at least and could afford 
to laugh. 

“Is it not wonderful to reflect,” said Mr. Watterson, 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ENTERTAINS. 247 

thoughtfully, ''that this country, now the home of teeming 
millions, was comparatively a few years ago a wild waste 
of wilderness? What marvels civilization has wrought! 
Where formerly the Indian battled, fished and hunted are 
now tens of thousands of happy homes.’’ 

'‘And the Indian ? Wha’h is he ? ” asked the General. 

"The survival of the fittest. General,” said Mr. Wat- 
terson, stretching forth his hand in mild enthusiasm. "The 
white man is the last and the noblest work of God. His 
destiny is marked out for him and whatever stands in the 
way of the final goal must be crushed, wiped out, exter- 
minated. The survival of the fittest ! It is the law of nature. 
We are prone to pity the denizens of the wilds, but. General, 
they must yield their existence to the march of human des- 
tiny. Savagery must retreat before civilization. The sur- 
vival of the fittest ! It is the slogan of civilization. With 
a Columbus to lead the way, the eager stream that follows 
is irresistible, overwhelming. It cannot — may not — should 
not be stayed. Its advance necessitates the devastation of 
all primitive life. It is nature’s law.” 

"It is a ta’hible law, Majah,” said the General. 

"Terrible, indeed, but inevitable. Evolution is going on 
every moment of time, but very slowly, measured by our 
standards. A generation is but a moment in an eternity of 
time, and as generation succeeds generation the mass of 
mankind must increase, and, increasing, spread over vast 
areas in order to maintain life and being. And all things 
primitive must go down before expanding civilization. It is 
nature’s law, and nature is inexorable.” 

Myrtle reveled in her father’s eloquence, while the 
General chafed and Elmer yawned. He continued in the 
same strain contending with the General, who hotly re- 
senting his old friend’s dictatorial tone strenuously dis- 
puted every inch of the ground they covered. Myrtle sid- 
ing heart and soul with her father would dearly have liked 
to join in with a word now and then, but she knew from 
bitter experience that a word from her would instantly 
check his eager interest and turn his thoughts into another 
channel. Mr. Watterson was very proud of his daughter, 
but he never could bring himself to think of her as other 


248 


THE WATTERSONS. 


than a loving child. Elmer tried once or twice to engage 
her in conversation, but without avail. 

‘‘I am duly doing time now in the bank,’’ he said indo- 
lently. 

'‘Are you indeed ? ” responded Myrtle, abstractedly. 

"Yes, I’m wearing myself into an early grave.” 

"I’m glad to hear it,” said the girl intent upon her 
father. 

"What !” cried Elmer. 

"Hush !” said Myrtle, frowning and absolutely holding 
up her finger in warning as to a babbling child. 

Elmer rose in great indignation and stalked away in 
search of Rosie. 

It was some hours later when Aunt Sadie returned 
with her boy. 

"I know I did wrong. General, ” she said, "but I have 
promised so often to call upon Mrs. Dinsmore that I really 
couldn’t tear myself away when I got there. She’s such a 
dear. And, oh, the darling children she has. General ! Will 
you pardon me. General ? ” 

"Yes, Mistress Sadie, on condition that you stay an 
hour beyond yo’ usual time.” 

"You are very kind,” said Aunt Sadie, smiling. 

"Myrtle and I will go on ahead. Uncle,” said Sherman, 
along towards dark, "so that you may offer a seat to Rosie 
and Elmer.” 

"I was about to suggest that very thing.” 

So the lovers went away arm in arm. Myrtle with her 
head pensively drooping and Sherman rattling away in his 
usual happy, haphazard fashion. 

"Are you really thinking of going away, Sherman?” 
asked Myrtle softly. 

"Yes, I am really thinking of it.” 

"Are you resolved upon it ? ” 

"There is only one thing that will keep me at home,” 
Sherman replied, bending low to look into her eyes. 

She did not reply and they continued for some time in 
silence. 

"Only one thing, sweetheart,” said Sherman presently. 
"You know what that is. Myrtle.” 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ENTERTAINS. 


249 


‘'Yes, Sherman, I know,’’ Myrtle replied in a low voice. 

He said no more, but looking down to make sure that 
they were unobserved, he raised her hand to his lips and 
kissed it many times. She regarded him with deep emotion. 

“Be patient, dear Sherman,” she murmured, “very pa- 
tient with me.” 

They walked on in silence after that and before long 
gained the old homestead where Franklin received them in 
stately fashion as became the butler of the first family in 
Clarenceburg. 

“I have never enjoyed a day so much. General,” said 
Aunt Sadie, in parting from her host. 

“You must come again then. Madam — very soon.” 

The blood-red sup was sinking low on the western 
horizon, when, looking back. Aunt Sadie saw the gallant old 
warrior turning into his gate. 

“He’s the dearest man, Winfield,” she murmured. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


IN WHICH A VERY OLD STORY IS RETOLD. 

The wistful expression on Rosie’s face became more 
pronounced every day. The gay raillery of her companions 
failed to rouse her. She replied to their chaffing only with 
a sad little smile. She worked industriously in cleaning 
and arranging her shelves and setting forth her wares in 
the most attractive style, spending as much time as possible 
at it, as if to fill her mind with something other than the 
thoughts that troubled all her waking hours. 

Old Murly, going his slipshod way through the store, 
would pause to gaze in warm approval at the pretty display, 
the tidy shelves, and the pretty neat little woman behind the 
counter. 

“Good little Rosie,” he would say, rubbing his hands 
together. “Fine ! fine ! ” Such praise, once sweet to Rosie, 
pleased her no more. Her heart was no longer in her work, 
but weighted down by the burden of a secret that filled her 
with a fearful shame and foreboding terror. Elmer never 
came to the store now. He had now no need to make ap- 
pointments with the patient little toiler. She stayed at home 
waiting for him, and trembling lest he should not come. 
Yes, it had come to this pass. The once innocent, timid, 
trusting little Rosie was now his slave and plaything. She 
could no longer meet the pure gaze of her girl companions, 
nor visit Aunt Sadie as heretofore, nor associate with 
Myrtle, who was the soul of purity, nor call upon the Gen- 
eral, nor do any of the many things which as an innocent 
virtuous girl had been her joy and pride. 

And how did this come to pass? How had Rosie the 
once joyous and light-hearted little maid been brought to 
this abject state? The history of the happy days following 
upon that fatal night when Elmer had first kissed little 
Rosie’s lips is quickly told. He visited the girl every even- 
ing, taking complete possession of her, holding her in close 


IN WHICH A VERY OLD STORY IS RETOLD. 25 1 

embrace, and kissing her at will. Without alarming her 
modesty by a spoken word, he made her understand that 
she belonged to him, that having promised to marry him, 
she must submit to his caresses and respond to them, and 
loving him with passionate adoration, obedience in this be- 
came her pride and joy. She did not realize the danger into 
which she gradually was drifting. He spoke constantly of 
their coming marriage, and drew her on to speak of it. He 
indulged in smiling remarks that brought blushes to her 
cheeks, whereon he would laugh as at something exceed- 
ingly droll, and Rosie came to smile and laugh with him, 
thinking it was only Elmer’s way. His freedom of manner 
sometimes filled her with shame. He laughed at her pru- 
dishness, ignored her protests, which became gradually 
weaker and fewer. Surely he meant no harm ! Was she 
not to become his wife? And so the word, the look, the 
touch, at first indignantly repudiated, came to be laughed at, 
then tolerated, then expected. Thus by imperceptible de- 
grees the young girl’s modesty was undermined. 

It was not until one night late in the autumn that El- 
mer, calling as usual at a late hour, indulged his passion in 
a manner so open and flagrant as to leave no room in 
Rosie’s mind for doubt or misunderstanding. He had been 
drinking until, his senses reeling, he had lost his customary 
caution and Rosie realized with a shock whither she had 
been tending. Dumfounded, terribly indignant and ashamed, 
she left him, and creeping to her room, she wept the whole 
night through. Murly’s saw her not the next day, and 
when Elmer called that evening, she was away from home. 
Learning where she had gone, he followed her there and 
coolly took possession of her when at a late hour she pre- 
pared for home. His manner very tender, but circumspect, 
did not deceive Rosie. When he again called to see her, 
she was again away attending a party, and again he followed 
her. It was from then on a constant chase. Rosie fright- 
ened, fled persistently and he as persistently pursued her. 
She was afraid of him, but more afraid of herself. She 
loved him, he knew. She blushed and trembled with happi- 
ness when after fleeing him, he appeared before her. 


252 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Why do you avoid me, Rosie?'' he asked a thousand 
times. 

"I'm afraid," Rosie would answer. 

Afraid of him, fleeing from him, yet almost wild with 
joy when he was by her side. She spent all her evenings 
away from home with Myrtle, with the General or with 
one or another of her friends, but wherever she went, Elmer 
was sure to follow. His constancy and tender devotion in 
the face of her resistance charmed the girl. She had not 
strength of mind enough to cast him off. He was, in spite of 
her fear of him, her only joy and happiness. Her home life 
was an endless round of misery. Her mother hated her. She 
had no longer a kind word for Rosie. The girl was in her 
way. The widow had her own affairs, and furious at Rosie's 
beauty, her fancied purity and innocence, she became out- 
rageous in her treatment of the girl. Were it not for the 
hope she entertained of Rosie's speedy marriage, she would 
have driven the girl from her house. Rosie was very un- 
happy. Life was becoming unbearable. She thought her 
mother's actions very strange of late. She often came upon 
the Rev. Ringrose in the parlor, and she could not under- 
stand his constant presence there. She never dreamed of 
doubting her mother's chastity. She thought the minister's 
free and easy manner of lounging about the house very 
strange and the man became odious to her sight. Once or 
twice she heard her mother's voice raised as if in extreme 
anger when she and the minister were alone together in the 
front parlor. Mrs. Rosewood frequently went away for 
days, and by a curious coincidence, the local brevities in the 
news columns of the daily papers, invariably announced the 
absence of the Rev. Mortimer Ringrose at those times. She 
had gone to Forestville to visit her sister, the paper said ; he 
to Traviston, to Belton, to Mathews or to Mercury, to spend 
a few days with a brother minister. The little widow, too, 
had become very active in church work, which fact puzzled 
little Rosie exceedingly. Certainly her mother's surprising 
religious enthusiasm did not soften her heart towards her 
daughter. Coming home after a hard day's work, she was 
met by a scowling shrew who seemed to delight in tyran- 
nizing over the poor girl. 


IN WHICH A VERY OLD STORY IS RETOLD. 253 

Rosie longed to escape her tyranny but she could see no 
way clear. Elmer often spoke of marriage to her, picturing 
their happy future to the enraptured girl, but always there 
followed upon the heels of this, that which made her shrink 
away from him. He could not marry just yet. His father 
would not hear of it. He was very stern with him. He 
would infallibly disown him if he went counter to his 
wishes. She must trust him. He would surely marry her 
some day, but why wait for happiness so long? He pleaded 
eloquently. He sighed and gazed reproachfully at her. Ele 
upbraided her, saying that she did not love him. Oh, she 
did ! she did ! Then why could she not trust him ? Let her 
prove her love, and he would defy his father, defy his 
mother, defy the whole world and marry her. But he de- 
manded the proof, and the proof he asked terrified the girl. 

She did not distrust Elmer. She believed him good and 
noble. She doubted not that he would surely marry her. 
She did not distrust him, but with all a pure girhs horror 
she shrank with shame from the contemplation of unchastity. 
But she loved Elmer and he loved her. All her life she had 
longed for love. Love me ! Love me ! had been the constant 
cry of her heart. Elmer loved her passionately.^ How could 
she doubt his protestations, his burning kisses, his sighs, and 
faithful attendance? And for this love she was deeply 
grateful, and in pure gratitude she faltered and hesitated, 
and tremblingly thought of yielding to his pleadings. She 
was a weak, loving woman ; she had her own passion to con- 
tend with as well as his ; her home life was miserable, per- 
haps her yielding would hasten the day of release. Elmer 
would not forsake her. She would be happy with him. Such 
thoughts persisted in presenting themselves to Rosie's mind 
and by persistently dwelling upon them, they came at last to 
appear to her in the light of a promise and a release. 

One evening Elmer came to the store to see Rosie as 
was his habit when he wished to arrange for an evening's 
amusement in her company. 

“I've got tickets for the dance tonight at Elroy's, 
Rosie," he said. “Would you like to go with me? " 

The little maid colored with pleasure, but hesitated, 
gazing into his beautiful eyes with deep emotion. 


254 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''I — I don’t think I’d better,” she gasped out at last, 
pressing her hand to her heart. 

'‘Why, Rosie?” murmured Elmer, reproachfully. "You 
used to be glad to go with me.” 

"I am now,” said Rosie agitatedly; "but — but I can’t 
go ! Oh, don’t ask me, Elmer. Don’t come to see me any 
more. It breaks my heart to be unkind to you but — it will 
_ be — best !” 

"Now, Rosie, you know you are talking nonsense,” El- 
mer replied in that masterful tone, which thrilled Rosie 
through and through. "You belong to me and nothing on 
earth shall make me give up my little girl. I am coming up 
tonight, Rosie, and I shall expect to find you ready. Do you 
hear, Rosie?” 

"Yes, Elmer,” she replied in a low voice. 

"And you’ll be ready when I come, Rosie?” 

Rosie nodded dimpling and blushing beneath his ardent 
gaze. She went home palpitating, half determined to flee 
from this temptation. But she had flown before to no pur- 
pose. Elmer would surely seek her out, and his soft re- 
proachful glances would pierce her to the heart. Her 
mother, she found on reaching home had gone away. Lottie, 
a married woman with a family of her own, had a sick baby 
at home, and stayed only long enough to prepare supper for 
little Rosie. 

When Elmer called later in the evening, Rosie wearing 
her prettiest finery met him at the door, doubtful still and 
full of a nameless fear of she knew not what — a feeling at 
once terrifying and delicious, because vague and undefined, 
yet suggestive of unknown delights. She pressed her lover’s 
arm with both of her little hands as they walked along and 
showed all her pretty teeth and roguish dimples in smiling 
gayly up at him. She chatted with uncommon spirit and 
laughed and danced in the darkness in pure lightness of 
heart. 

The dance was a glorious success. Elmer danced al- 
most every number with her, he would not let her out of his 
keeping even for a moment. In vain did suitors crowd 
around the blooming little maid, in vain they sued and clam- 
ored for her favors. She belonged all to Elmer ; she had no 


IN WHICH A VERY OLD STORY IS RETOLD. 255 

glance for any one else. And when, the dance over, 
they proceeded homeward Elmer proposed a little supper, 
Rosie acceded eagerly and with him repaired to Trainor’s 
of happy memory, where they spent quite two hours, which 
to little Rosie sped like minutes, in the intoxicating joy of 
Elmer’s presence. She sipped a glass of wine — two glasses 
at Elmer’s solicitation. She ate heartily of the rich food. 
Elmer brought the talk to bear upon the play which long ago 
they had witnessed in company. He was constantly recur- 
ring to this play when with little Rosie, constantly talking 
about it, and dilating upon its central feature — a secret mar- 
riage — contracted by the lovers themselves and later sanc- 
tioned by the church and pronounced by the law to be per- 
fectly legal and binding. Rosie remembered it well. The 
lovers simply clasped hands and repeated the words of the 
marriage service and the thing was done. It was so easy, 
said Elmer, and so had said a thousand, thousand times, 
since that happy evening, speaking half in jest and half in 
earnest — so simple and feasible. So it was, agreed Rosie. 
Then why not enter into a like union with him? Rosie 
laughed gayly. Always this query followed upon the heels 
of this subject. 

''Now, Rosie, listen to me,” said Elmer, when they were 
once more in the street, walking slowly homeward. "I am 
in deadly earnest. I want to marry you, and I can’t wait 
for my father’s sanction. Do you love me well enough to 
trust me as the girl trusted her lover in the play? Do you, 
little Rosie ?” 

"Oh, Elmer, you know how dearly I love you,” Rosie 
replied. 

"Then say you will, darling, say it,” urged Elmer. 

"I — I’m afraid,” gasped Rosie. 

"What are you afraid of?” he asked tenderly. 

Rosie did not know, only she was afraid. She pressed 
closer to him, smiling with trembling lips. 

"You know, darling, that such a marriage would be a 
true one,” Elmer said. 

Rosie nodded. She saw no reason to doubt it at all. 
Had she not seen with her own eyes? Heard with her own 
ears ? Rosie accepted religiously as solemn truth everything 


256 


THE WATTERSONS. 


she saw enacted upon the stage. But — but it would be such 
a funny thing to do ! So she hesitated, giggling and shaking 
her head. 

‘'You want me to marry you,’’ Elmer said brutally, “yet 
when I offer to do so in the only way open to us at present, 
you draw back !” 

“Dear Elmer, I do not draw back,” murmured Rosie. 
“I love you. Only I should so like to have a wedding like 
other girls.” 

“That will come later,” cried Elmer. 

It was very late. The little cottage was dark as night. 
The town slept. From afar came the fitful baying of dogs. 
Rosie crept close to Elmer for the weather was cold. She 
felt warm within from the wine she had drunk, and the 
movement was archly coquettish. Elmer kissed her. She 
laughed aloud and was almost frightened at the reckless 
sound. 

“Put your hands in mine, Rosie,” whispered Elmer, 
pausing beside the little verandah, “and let us say the words 
just as they were said in the play.” 

Rosie giggling, did so, and Elmer repeated the words 
as well as he recalled them; Rosie, smiling as if it were all 
great fun, said them after him. Her head was in a whirl. 
She felt quite giddy, but when it was all over, and Elmer 
clasped her in his arms, she returned his embrace in a trans- 
port of passion. 

“Now we’re married, Rosie,” said Elmer. “You are my 
wife.” 

“It — doesn’t seem true,” gasped Rosie, who was very 
pale and panting with emotion. 

It was not a true marriage, and oh ! deep down in her 
heart she knew it. And yet — and yet — with her arms 
around his neck, she kissed him passionately. How beautiful 
he was ! How good to her, how lovable in every way ! They 
were now in the shadow of the little porch, where so often 
they had parted in the past. Elmer showed no intention of 
departing now. On the contrary, he mounted the steps by 
Rosie’s side, with his arms around her waist, smiling in a 
way that seemed both strange and sweet to Rosie’s eyes. 
Rosie remembered with a feeling of vague alarm in which 


IN WHICH A VERY OLD STORY IS RETOLD. 257 

was strongly mingled a certain sweet gladness that her 
mother was away from home ; gone on one of her mysteri- 
ous journeys which of late had become so frequent and 
prolonged. 

'‘Let us go in,” whispered Elmer, softly kissing her. 

"No, no,” replied Rosie, restraining him with a flutter- 
ing hand. "There is no one there. Mama is^ away.” 

Elmer chuckled. Evidently he had known of Mama's' 
absence. 

"Come, Rosie,” he said, and gently pushed open the 
door. 

Rosie drew back frightened. 

"No, no,” she gasped. "I — I had better not. I — I 
will see Aunt Sadie tomorrow, and— and ask her about it — 
about the marriage I mean in the play.” 

"Come, Rosie,” was Elmer's reply. "Come, darling.” 

He drew her on gently, smiling down into her shining 

eyes. 

"Oh, Elmer, have pity,” she murmured, suddenly 
throwing herself upon his breast. 

She was crying now, sobbing indeed in utter abandon, 
with her arms encircling his neck, and her face pressed 
against his bosom. 

Laughing softly he lifted her up in his arms and car- 
ried her into the house; Rosie protesting confusedly to the 
last. 

"I'm afraid — please go away, Elmer. My dear love ! 
I don't believe I belong to you. Oh what would Aunt Sadie 
say ! You will marry me really and truly Elmer ?” 

The door closed softly upon them, and all was quiet as 
death around the little cottage. 

Aunt Sadie entering Murly's glittering emporium some 
days later became at once the center of attraction to the 
bustling, blooming little creatures behind the counters. Her 
coming always created a stir and flutter, for all were eager 
for a smile or a word from good Aunt Sadie, whom one and 
all had known and loved from earliest infancy. She looked 
so good and kind always, she was so sweet and motherly, 
and withal so grand and stately that grown girls became as 


258 


THE WATTERSONS. 


children in her presence. They smiled brightly across at 
her ; they blew her a thousand kisses ; some called her by 
name or beckoned, enticingly displaying their prettiest 
wares for her inspection. Old Miirly going his slip-shod 
way through the store paused in some astonishment, and 
gazed around in search of the cause of this unusual commo- 
tion. Observing Aunt Sadie going from counter to counter, 
he grunted comprehendingly and re-entered his little office 
in the rear. 

^'What is it, Rosie? ’’ asked Aunt Sadie, pausing beside 
that blooming little maid, whose sad, wistful gaze had at- 
tracted her from afar. 

‘T only wanted to ask you something, Aifntie,'’ replied 
Rosie, plucking nervously at the corners of her apron. 

Aunt Sadie waited, smiling. 

“Do you remember a play that came here some weeks 
ago. Auntie? — a play in which the lovers marry themselves 
by clasping hands and repeating the marriage service ? 
Don’t you remember, I was there with Elmer and we came 
to your box and sat with you, oh, ever so long — through 
all the last act? Don’t you remember it. Auntie?’' 

Aunt Sadie was not sure. She had seen so many plays 
and she forgot them as quickly as possible so that she could 
enjoy them again, when next they visited the little city. But 
Rosie persisted recalling so many little things about the 
play in question, that presently it all came back to the good 
lady and she cried out that she remembered the story down 
to its uttermost detail. 

“But what of it, Rosie?” asked Aunt Sadie. 

“I only wanted to ask you about it, dear Auntie,” said 
Rosie, blushing and paling by turns. “I — I’ve been think- 
ing about it ever since ; and — and I wanted to know. 
Would that marriage be really and truly binding. Auntie? 
Not in the play, you know, but in real life?” 

“Why, no, my dear,” cried Aunt Sadie, laughing. 
“You mustn’t believe everything you see on the stage. 
Anything can happen in a play, my love.” 

Rosie, smiling faintly, murmured an incoherent reply, 
and Aunt Sadie, nodding kindly to the little maid went on 
her way. Rosie, left alone, leaned weak and pale against the 


IN WHICH A VERY OLD STORY IS RETOLD. 259 

shelves behind, following with her eyes Aunt Sadie’s tall 
form, as she went about among her friends, until her pur- 
chases completed she left the store. 

''Anything can happen in a play !” 

Aunt Sadie said it ! There was then no truth at all in 
her marriage. Then what was she ? O God ! A strumpet, 
an outcast ! and yet — and yet — had she not known ? Alas ! 
Even in the height of her passion, she had realized the un- 
truth of it all ; and when passion had given way to sober 
reason, she had trembled with a dread uncertainty, born of 
a childish trust in what she had seen and a loving faith in 
Elmer. He would not deceive her. She trusted him abso- 
lutely, and even now, when convinced of the hollow falsity 
of it all, her faith in him remained unshaken. 

"Dear Elmer,” she said, when next he came to her, 
"we must get married at once.” 

"But we are married, Rosie,” he replied, smiling. 

"No, Elmer, no! Aunt Sadie says the marriage in the 
play was only make-believe, Elmer, and Aunt Sadie knows. 
But we did not know that, did we, Elmer?” said Rosie, 
timidly. 

"No,” replied Elmer, chuckling. "We didn’t know it, 
Rosie.” 

"But you will marry me now, Elmer, a real true mar- 
riage?” she asked imploringly. 

"Some day, Rosie. You must trust me.” 

"Yes, I must — now !” Rosie replied, hiding her face 
with a movement of shame. 

Elmer laughed and caressed her, and for the moment 
she was happy. But new doubts assailed her in after days, 
doubts of Elmer’s constancy and faith. 

And so Rosie stands behind her counter, sad-eyed and 
wistful, because ashamed and afraid. 


CHAPTER XX. 


IN WHICH MR. WATTERSON IS APPEALED TO ON SENTIMENTAL 
GROUNDS. 

Mr. Watterson had removed his soft felt hat, his gloves 
and heavy ulster, and was standing before his desk looking 
down at the heap of letters awaiting his attention. He 
heard voices in the adjoining office of his secretary, the 
voices of two men raised in heated altercation, but sat down 
rubbing his hands together softly with the air of a man 
who is sure of remaining undisturbed. He was, however, 
mistaken in this supposition, for before he had well begun 
on his correspondence, Delaware opened the door and 
showed a red and agitated countenance to his chief. 

gentleman, sir, who wishes to see you,'’ announced 
the secretary, closing the door softly, “he will take no re- 
fusal, sir.” 

‘'Well, Delaware,” said Mr. Watterson, smiling, “if he 
will take no refusal, we must even admit him. Hold !” he 
added hastily, “he is not a newspaper man I hope?” 

“No, sir, no, no! I know them a mile off.” 

“Then admit him.” 

In view of the great man’s high good humor, Delaware 
beamed affably upon the visitor in admitting him to the 
august presence. He was a tall, thin man, elderly, with a 
closely clipped steel grey beard, sharp little eyes, large nose 
and large hands encased in black kid gloves — a type of 
leading business man, and of Scottish origin as could be 
seen at a glance. He wore a fur trimmed ulster and a 
peaked cap of fine sealskin. Mr. Watterson waved him 
courteously to a seat and waited in silence for him to 
speak. 

“Mr. Watterson,” he began, throwing open his over- 
coat, and seating himself with his cap held in one gloved 
hand pressed against a bony knee, “my name is Wool worth 
— Malcolm Woolworth, and I am in the lumber business, 
President of the Cairo Lumber Company.” 


IN WHICH MR. WATTERSON IS APPEALED TO. 261 

He paused to see if this bit of information conveyed 
any recognition. Mr. Watterson stroked his beard reflec- 
tively, but his face remained impassive. 

“I made my start in Cairo, Illinois, thirty-five years 
ago, but the present headquarters of the concern are in 
Chicago. Mr. Watterson, you have heard of the Forestry 
Bill?’^ 

Mr. Watterson bowed. 

'‘Of course,’’ continued the other "I have even heard 
that your interest — your influence has been gained for the 
men behind that measure, sir? ” 

"You have heard wrong, sir,” replied Mr. Watterson 
with a weary glance at his letters. 

"I am glad to hear it,” said Mr. Woolworth opening his 
mouth dryly by way of a smile, "the reason I am here is to 
ask your influence to defeat the Forestry Bill, or at least to 
ask you to withdraw — pardon me — withhold your support 
from the other side. I believe you are a just man, and my 
daughter tells me that you are a generous one.” 

"Your daughter, sir,” said Mr. Watterson in surprise. 
"Pardon me, Mr. Woolworth — hold — Woolworth — Wool- 
worth! Ah, you are the father of Mary Woolworth? My 
daughter spent some months with you a couple of years 
ago?” 

"Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Woolworth smiling for all the 
world like a gasping fish. "Miss Watterson and Mary at- 
tended college together. They were the closest of friends. 
Naturally they talked much of their fathers and from your 
daughter, Mary learned something of your character.” 

"You surprise me Mr. Woolworth,” said Mr. Watterson 
shaking his great head and smiling, "that you should con- 
sider testimony coming from such a source — ” 

"I know, I know,” said Mr. Woolworth with his dry 
smile, "it would be rather partial I admit, but then I would 
rather rely upon such testimony and my . study of you 
through your published orations, than upon the criticisms 
and charges preferred against you by newspaper critics 
and envious political failures. My daughter Mary is a re- 
markable woman, a clever woman, a woman of rare busi- 
ness ability. However, that is neither here nor there — I men- 


262 


THE WATTERSONS. 


tion it merely as a kind of excuse for my otherwise unwar- 
ranted intrusion. Mr. Watterson I want to appeal to your 
sense of justice. You have the power I believe, if you care 
to use it, to defeat this measure, which is a monstrous in- 
justice to myself and my business associates. We have mil- 
lions behind us, I am not appealing to you in the guise of a 
poor oppressed worm pursued by a dragon, not at all — but 
Mr. Watterson, I need hardly tell a man of your superior 
intelligence that justice may sometimes be on the side of 
millions. Is it not so?” 

^‘Go on.” 

'‘Just so. Well, sir, the Cairo Lumber Company has 
bought up some thousands of acres of timber in various parts 
of the State but mainly in Southern Illinois where forests 
abound, and we have put millions of money into saw mills 
and plants of various kinds designed to convert the raw prod- 
uct into finished material for building and other purposes. 
We conduct our business along legitimate lines, but natur- 
ally following the trend of the times we have been forging 
ahead steadily working to gain a monopoly of the business. 
I believe in monopoly, sir. It is the legitimate result of 
modern business methods. Competition is out of date. One 
must get a monopoly of the business he is engaged in, not 
only to succeed in it, but for pure self-preservation's sake. 
We planned that if we could consolidate all the lumber con- 
cerns in the State into a trust we could by reducing expense 
of manufacture lower the prices on finished material to a 
figure absolutely prohibitive to lumber dealers in surround- 
ing States, thus making it impossible for them to invade our 
territory. We would gain absolute control of the lumber 
trade in this State. Do you follow me, Mr. Watterson?” 

"Yes, sir. Go ahead.” Mr. Watterson was evidently 
becoming interested. 

"Well sir, we followed the usual methods. We made 
overtures to our powerful rivals, showing them the advan- 
tage of consolidation and quickly won them over. Then we 
started in on a warfare of extermination on the smaller fr}’, 
forcing them into line or out of business entirely, by invad- 
ing their territory and selling the finished material below 
cost of manufacture ; and in this way after half a dozen 


IN WHICH MR. WATTERSON IS APPEALED TO. 263 

years of ceaseless fighting and maneuvering the Cairo Lum- 
ber Company controlled the Illinois trade, and by buying up 
immense tracts of forests nearest the lines of transporta- 
tion, we controlled the output of the entire State. You will 
understand that the middlemen — the builders, contractors 
and furniture men, could not possibly sufifer through this 
combination, for while we control the lumber, raw and 
finished in this State, there are States all around us — In- 
diana — Michigan — Wisconsin — and others, which not only 
possess mighty forests, but many keen and far-sighted 
business men in the trade, who would invade our markets if 
they could possibly do so with profit. So in order to hold 
our own, we were compelled to keep within a certain limit.'' 

'Too bad," said Mr. Watterson, dryly. 

"Just so," responded the lumber merchant, looking 
hard at the big boss. "Now when it became known that 
we were in absolute control of the trade, a fear took pos- 
session of certain middlemen — notably James Carroll of 
Chicago and Montario of Peoria, big furniture men, who 
got it into their heads that with encouragement and support 
we would expand still more, until, gradually covering all 
the neighboring States, we should be in absolute control of 
the output of all the Middle States." 

"A not unnatural fear," said Mr. Watterson. 

"Well — ah — no. In fact, we had plans made for that 
purpose, and had already won over certain leading dealers 
in Indiana and in Michigan. And we have but begun. 
Why, sir; I believe that our concern will in time embrace 
the entire country." 

"Pray, Mr. Woolworth," said Mr. Watterson, in smiling 
protest, for the lumber merchant had started up in a burst of 
enthusiasm which bade fair to carry him away, "if you will 
compose yourself and proceed " 

"Just so, sir; just so," said the Scotchman, reseating 
himself. "I founded the Cairo Lumber Company; it grew 
under my management from a small, one-horse concern to 
its present proportions, and I am naturally a little — ah — 
daft about it. Well, sir; these men, Carroll of Chicago 
and Montario of Peoria, started a movement against us 
among the trade. It would seem, sir, at first sight that 


264 


THE WATTERSONS. 


such a movement among disorganized forces, and among 
men of different lines of trade, would be unsuccessful 
against an organized body of keen business men — but the 
thing got wind — meetings were held and largely attended — 
the Chicago Courier, a yellow journal, sir, took up the fight 
against us — enthusiasm was worked up, and, in a word, 
public opinion favored our opponents, and they made head- 
way. Public opinion, sir, is an intangible thing, but to 
fight against it is like swimming against a mighty current. 
We labored under the double disadvantage of not having a 
complete monopoly and of being partly under the ban of 
the railroads, which would enter into no special agreement 
with us as to rates, because by controlling the raw product 
we were able to dictate terms to them in the matter of ties, 
of which a well-managed railroad requires millions an- 
nually. If this uprising had come one year later, we should 
have been firmly established in several surrounding States 
and we could have defied both the public and the railroads, 
for when we have attained a sure and certain monopoly we 
shall be in a position to repeat with emphasis the dictum 
pronounced by certain gentlemen in the East — ‘The public 
be damned,' and the railroads will be obliged to yield to us. 
As it was, Carroll and Montario combined with others, and 
sent one expedition after another into Michigan, and by 
means of the convenient lakes they managed to bring much 
lumber into the State, at a comparatively slight cost. 
Other dealers did the same, and we were for a time non- 
plused. Ruin stared us in the face. But, sir, the fools 
cut their own throats. They avoided the big dealers of 
Michigan, considering them already bound to us, and went 
to the owners in the raw, got their timber cheaper in this 
way; but they offended the big lumber merchants, who 
were forced for self-preservation’s sake to form an alliance 
of offense and defense against the invaders. So, you see, 
they worked into our hands. We awaited the right 
moment, and then made our overtures and met with success. 
I have just returned from a tour of Michigan, Indiana, and 
Wisconsin, where I not only made arrangements for con- 
solidation, but also bought up so much timber in the most 


IN WHICH MR. WATTERSON IS APPEALED TO. 265 

accessible parts of the State as to seriously cripple the 
various bodies organized against us.’’ 

‘'Shrewd/' was Mr. Watterson’s admiring comment. 

“But, sir, the matter had by this time become of uni- 
versal interest. We do not court publicity, sir; in fact, it 
is a thing that I abhor. We had no sooner brought Carroll 
and Montario and Company to terms than the fight was 
taken up by the quarrymen and the steel and iron dealers, 
and in fact by every kind of concern that furnishes a bolt, 
a screw, or thingumbob to the building of a structure of 
any kind. We have fought them, sir, for some weeks 
openly, and we have held our own, but under the late leader- 
ship of a man, who, sir, is worth his weight in gold, they 
have resorted to methods which we business men find it 
impossible to combat." 

“Well?" said Mr. Watterson, as the other paused and 
gazed pensively at the floor. 

“Well, sir; the end of all this fighting is the Forestry 
Bill which, by God! — pardon me, sir — which deprives us 
of the right to cut certain timbers at all, and of using other 
parts only under ironclad and impossible conditions. And 
this, under the absurd pretense of preserving our forests ! 
Now is not that outrageous? We acquire — legitimately 
acquire — certain property, and then the law steps in and 
declares that we shall not use that property, because by 
doing so we would be despoiling the commonwealth of all 
its natural beauty. I put it to you, sir, is not that out- 
rageous and unjust?" 

“This Forestry Bill is vouched for by whom?" asked 
Mr. Watterson. 

“Nominally by Dickson of Chicago, but really by 
Southgate of Peoria." 

“By whom? " said Mr. Watterson, in a deep voice. 

“By Southgate of Peoria. There are millions behind 
it, and we cannot afford to fight it with money, and there- 
fore I come to you. I believe that a word — one word — 
from you will defeat this measure." 

“Nonsense! Even allowing that my word carried 
weight with those of my party, you forget that the Demo- 


266 


THE WATTERSONS. 


crats have a majority in both houses — not to mention South- 
gate’s forces.” 

“I will guarantee enough Democratic votes to secure 
victory if you will use your influence with the members of 
your party. The bill is not considered of any great im- 
portance as yet.” 

“But my interference will instantly make it so.” 

“Even so, it is not a party measure at all.” 

“Again, my interference will make it so.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Woolworth, a little at a loss, “we 
must beat it. The passage of this measure will mean utter 
annihilation to us. We shall have to go back to the old 
one-horse methods of thirty years ago, and that in these 
progressive times is impossible to a business man. It will do 
away with organization in any State as far as lumber inter- 
ests are concerned, for, of course, other States will follovA^ 
Illinois’ lead. Now, Mr. Watterson, I know you are no 
enemy to legitimate organization. I have read many of your 
speeches and am fairly familiar with your ideas on the 
subject. Look at it any way you will. We began business 
at the bottom of the ladder and advanced with the times, 
but we advanced legitimately. You are a business man, Mr. 
Watterson, and you understand that in these times we have 
got to forge ahead or go down. In pure self-defense you 
must grasp advantages as they arise ; there is no standing 
still. The moment you pause you are left behind in the 
race. We early saw the advantage, in fact, the absolute 
necessity of consolidation. We combined and went on and 
on to victory. We invested millions in plants, in mills, and 
in timber, and we now stand in a fair way of being ruined 
by what is nothing more nor less than a cloud of sentimental 
rubbish stirred up by unscrupulous men to hide their 
nefarious designs on legitimate trade. If they fought us 
in the open, in competition, sir, it would be all right, but to 
come at us under cover of fake sentiment, calling us mon- 
sters of iniquity, despoilers of our beautiful forests, and so 
on and so forth — why, it riles me, Mr. Watterson — it riles 
me, sir ! ” 

“The measure is very popular,” said the politician, 
thoughtfully. 


IN WHICH MR. WATTERSON IS APPEALED TO. 267 

''In the city, yes; but not in the country, where it 
strikes and where its existence is hardly known. The out- 
cry against trusts makes anything that bids fair to cripple a 
trust popular with the city masses. They do not consider 
it possible that right can be on the side of the great trust. 
It is in your power to help us, Mr. Watterson. Osborne, the 
Republican leader in the Cairo district, assures me that you 
never interfere in legislation, but Mary, my daughter, is 
sure that you will use your influence on the side of justice. 
She was so certain of this that I came to you on her earnest 
solicitation. It may sound odd coming from a practical 
business man, but so it is.’' Then Mr. Woolworth burst 
into a dry cackle. "Upon my word,” he said, "I am appeal- 
ing to you on sentimental grounds. I didn’t mean to do 
so. I didn’t mean to mention my daughter to you, nor say 
one word about her friendship for Miss Watterson. But 
when a man’s life work is in danger of annihilation — you 
understand, Mr. Watterson?” 

"I will look into it,” said Mr. Watterson. "Something 
can be done, no doubt. There is time ?” 

"A couple of weeks.” 

"Very well. By the way, is there a Mr. Marblemore 
connected with you in any way ?” 

"Not that I can recall at this moment. It is quite 
possible, however.” 

"No. His interests are always important enough to 
make him a factor in whatever he goes into. If he is not 
with you. I’ll engage that he is opposed to you. From him 
I shall learn the other side.” 

"Just so. Just so.” 

"You are sure Southgate is for the bill?” 

"Yes. I was at first going to him, but learned that 
the opposing forces had already secured his interest. That 
was early in the game, when I had determined to use money 
and defeat the thing by fair means or foul. I changed my 
mind, however, upon talking the matter over with my 
daughter, who has a wonderful head for business. She 
would not hear of bribery, and utterly abhors men of South- 
gate’s stamp. A woman, sir, is always for purity, for 


268 


THE WATTERSONS. 


honesty and for right. I will go now, Mr. Watterson, I have 
taken up too much of your time already.’’ 

‘'Do you stay in town for any length of time?” asked 
Mr. Watterson. “If so, I shall feel honored if you will 
become my guest.” 

“The honor would be mine, sir,” replied the lumber 
merchant, suavely, “but unfortunately I am due at Chicago 
this evening.” 

“Some other time, perhaps. Bring your daughter.” 

“Thank you.” 

They shook hands warmly, and Mr. Watterson turned 
to his letters. He went through them with his usual delib- 
eration, and, summoning Delaware, dictated replies to those 
calling for immediate attention, reserving some for future 
response and others for personal attention. Other visitors 
called; lawyers who frequently came to consult him on 
some knotty legal point, a politician or two, jolly Billy Boyle, 
accompanied by his faithful Hannah, and three or four 
farmers from the surrounding country, who came to him 
as to an old friend to talk over the prices of broom corn 
and speculate on the chances of the next crop. He received 
them all with his usual kindly courtesy, remaining until late 
in the evening when, donning hat and overcoat, he made his 
way to the Marblemore bank. The great banker sat in his 
little box, occupied with Mr. Dayton and Mr. Everhart. He 
shook hands cordially with Mr. Watterson. Mr. Everhart 
nodded with his usual composure, but Mr. Dayton plunged 
forward eagerly. 

“How do, Watterson,” cried he, “cold as hell, ain’t it?” 

Mr. Watterson seated himself apart prepared to wait. 
With such an important visitor waiting the banker soon dis- 
posed of the other two. 

“Well, Winfield,” he said, drawing up his chair when 
they were alone. “Am I to have that Senatorship?” 

“It is not in my keeping, Andrew.” 

“Oh, yes, it is. However, I don’t care for it. You must 
take it, Winfield. You’ve got to. Illinois is the greatest 
State in the Union and should be fitly represented in the 
nation’s highest body. If you again reject the seat you are 
no worthy son of Illinois.” 


IN WHICH MR. WATTERSON IS APPEALED TO. 269 

'‘Plenty of time, Andrew. Nightingale has eighteen 
months yet.'' 

"Just time to elect a Republican legislature, eh? Re- 
member, Winfield, you can call on me for five thousand 
dollars to your campaign fund. Five thousand at any rate, 
and ten thousand if you come out openly for the Senate." 

"Thank you, Andrew. Are you interested in having 
this Forestry Bill passed? " 

"Well, rather," replied the banker, coolly. "I originated 
it, and I am engineering the whole thing." 

Mr. Watterson raised his brows, a way he had, but on 
the whole he was not very much astonished. He had, in 
fact, half expected this. He had become accustomed to the 
gigantic schemes of this remarkable man. Through his 
extensive holdings in railroads, in oil, in lands and in various 
other interests of importance this country banker had be- 
come a figure of national note. 

"Truly, Andrew, you are a genius," said Mr. Wat- 
terson. "It does not seem so very long since you came to 
me a horny-handed farm lad. And now you are a giant, a 
colossus in the world of finance ! " 

"I owe all I am to you, Winfield," said Mr. Marble- 
more, in accents of deep emotion, "I owe my start to you ; 
to your helping hand my rise is due. Your fortune served 
as a foundation for mine. I owe all I am to you." 

"Bah! Bah! Nonsense!" said the politician, im- 
patiently, "you ofifered your services to me and they were 
accepted because I stood in need of them. You proved your 
worth and rose naturally and inevitably by your own merit. 
As far as my fortune goes, it may have served as a founda- 
tion for yours, but in building upon it you increased my 
wealth fourfold — aye, eightfold. You owe me nothing. 
You owe your present eminence to your own industry, pluck 
and rare business ability. But tell me about this Forestry 
Bill, Andrew. Why should such solid interests as those 
behind this measure combine to push it through? Why 
should a practical business man get up a measure such as 
this? You, I know, care little for our scenic beauty, nor 
are you given to investing money in nonsensical rubbish. 
But let me tell you first that I have a purpose in question- 


270 


THE WATTERSONS. 


ing you — my assistance has been asked to defeat this meas- 
ure, and the reasons given induce me much to undertake 
the task/’ 

“Let it alone, Winfield,” said the banker, smiling 
broadly, “even you can’t beat it. We’ve got Southgate.” 

“Have you?” replied Mr. Watterson, dryly. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Marblemore, exultingly, “and we've 
got Sutherland, the boss lobbyist of them all. The bill is as 
good as passed.” 

“You forget, Andrew,” said Mr. Watterson, mildly, 
“or perhaps you do not know, that I have but to say a word 
to Sutherland to make him instantly abandon your interests.” 

“You don't say so?” cried Mr. Marblemore, opening 
his eyes wide, “but supposing he had taken our money — 
two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” 

“He will return it to you.” 

The banker now became genuinely alarmed. Mr. Wat- 
terson never exaggerated, he knew. 

“But you won't interfere, Winfield,” he said, “the thing 
means a good deal to us.” 

“Tell me about it, Andrew. Why do you wish to ruin 
this lumber concern? You are too sound a business man to 
take up the quarrels of other men.” 

“I am taking up no man’s quarrel, save my own,” re- 
plied the banker. “The Cairo Lumber Company controls 
the lumber trade of this State absolutely, as you doubtless 
know, but not content with that, the men behind it want to 
control everything that goes to the building of a cottage, a 
modern apartment house or a gigantic skyscraper, such as 
are now the rule in our great cities. Comparatively little 
lumber is used in modern building, but much steel, iron and 
stone. They no sooner gained control of the lumber trade 
than they started to deal in other lines. In the space of a 
single year, so shrewd were they and powerful, that they got 
control of many quarries in the northern part of the State, 
and before another year had passed they held such heavy 
interests in the Pittsburg Steel Company — the largest con- 
cern in the world — th^t they were practically in position 
to dictate terms to contractors and builders. You see their 
lumber monopoly enabled them to push their iron, steel and 


IN WHICH MR. WATTERSON IS APPEALED TO. 2^1 

stone in the face of all opposition. They are shrewd busi- 
ness men, keen, brainy and unscrupulous, and the most 
aggressive and daring bandits I ever had to do with. They 
were for monopoly pure and simple, and outrageously cool 
about it. But it was not to be supposed that they were to 
have their own way in everything. The small dealers in 
these various lines, in danger of being crushed, and the 
larger dealers sure of being engulfed, combined their in- 
terests and prepared to fight.’’ 

''But what had you to do with all this, Andrew?” 

"My attention was first called to this concern through 
certain insolent demands they, made upon a railroad in which 
I am interested. I also held heavy interests in the Peoria 
Steel and Iron Company at the time, and was considering 
certain proposals of investment made to me by the Lamont 
Stone Quarry Company, so that the Cairo Lumber Com- 
pany menacing me in three different directions I had fairly 
the right to regard this concern as my enemy in the business 
sense of the term. I accordingly took means to check their 
run. I learned the names and standing of all men who had 
reason to view the company’s encroachment with alarm. I 
made arrangements with these men for a business meeting, 
which was held some weeks ago at Peoria. Various plans 
were proposed, but my associates placed sufficient confidence 
in me to accept my scheme and to choose me as head. I 
was in favor of an aggressive campaign. I always am. 
Brains count in maneuvering forces, and determined resist- 
ance inevitably command the respect of the enemy. We 
did fight hard, using every weapon at our disposal, but the 
monster was too firmly rooted. We could do nothing with 
money, so I was obliged to resort to strategy, and going to 
the very root of their strength — their immense timber in- 
terests, I thought out this forestry thing, which cannot but 
seriously cripple our opponents. In fact it will annihilate 
the Cairo Lumber Company. It is a battle of brains, sir ; and 
I rather think that I hold the trump card. We shall surely 
win.” 

"And then?” 

"And then,” replied the banker, coolly, "the stock of 
the Cairo Lumber Company will go down to zero, and a 


272 


THE WATTERSONS. 


certain gentleman of onr acquaintance will get possession 
of the bulk of' it, and after judiciously distributing the rest 
among his associates, this gentleman will have the embargo 
removed from off our beautiful forests — in other words, the 
Forestry Bill will be repealed and the gentleman before re- 
ferred to will, by combining all contending forces, control 
the lumber, steel and stone trade of this State and in time 
of the United States/’ 

Mr. Watterson’s big brown eyes became larger and 
rounder as he listened to the banker coolly unfolding his 
unscrupulous scheme. 

'^You are very candid, Andrew,” he said, breathing 
deeply. ''You will ruin these men merely to increase your 
holdings ? Come, Andrew, you cannot mean it ?” 

"It is business, Winfield, modern business. One man’s 
making means the ruin of many. Success in every line of 
human endeavor is built upon the bones of failure. You 
ruined many promising politicians in building your political 
organization.” 

"No, Andrew, I did not,” replied Mr. Watterson, 
gravely. "Any man with an honest purpose, who showed 
the smallest degree of promise, was given a chance. You 
are not using fair means. Withdraw this measure and fight 
openly.” 

"We would have no chance against our opponents.” 

"But politics and business, Andrew, do not mix well.” 

"On the contrary, Winfield,” responded the banker, 
smiling, "they mix so well that one is absolutely necessary 
to the other.” 

"It isn’t fair.” 

"Everything is fair in business.” 

"Withdraw this measure, Andrew, and come to a com- 
promise with the Cairo Lumber Company. You can do so 
with advantage to yourself and your associates.” 

"No.” 

"Then,” said the politician ^ rising, "I’ll raise such a 
tempest about your ears that you will be glad to get from 
under.” 

"You cannot harm us, Winfield.” 

"No?” 


IN WHICH MR. WATTERSON IS APPEALED TO. 273 

''No — for the moment you leave my office I shall wire 
Sutherland to push the thing through.’’ 

Mr. Watterson sent forth his rumbling laugh. "Stick 
to business, Andrew,” he said, smiling, "you are master 
there, but you know nothing of politics.” 

"That is true enough. But come, Winfield, you won’t 
interfere ?” 

"Yes.” 

"Why?” 

"Ah,” said the big man, humorously, "I’ve been ap- 
pealed to on sentimental grounds.” 

"Delaware,” said Mr. Watterson when he reached his 
office, "wire Dillingham and Sagamore to meet me at 
Springfield in three days.” 


CHAPTER XXL 


IN WHICH BOSS WATTERSON TAKES A HAND. 

Three days later Mr. Watterson was at Springfield, the 
guest of the district’s leader, and luxuriously established 
at the headquarters of the local branch of the Illinois State 
Republican Club. His arrival at the State Capitol created 
a furore in political and newspaper circles. He so rarely 
left his home town, especially since the recent election, at 
which the Republican party had sustained such overwhelm- 
ing defeat that something of great importance must have 
happened to draw him away at this time. Large headlines in 
the newspapers announced his presence, and much space was 
devoted to speculation on the probable cause of his unex- 
pected visit. Newspaper men hung about his headquarters 
by the dozen. Political leaders came from all directions, 
and members of the law-making body were coming and 
going constantly. 

On the morning following the day of his arrival, Mr. 
Watterson was closeted with Dillingham, Sagamore and 
Brockington. The conference lasted three hours ; Mr. Dela- 
ware, guarding the door of the outer office during the con- 
ference, denied admittance to all comers. Farraday of the 
Chicago Courier was prominent among the newspaper men. 
The cause of Watterson’s presence was still a mystery, and 
Farraday, a thorough ferret, was biting his nails and danc- 
ing about almost wild with excitement and impatience. 

'T can put you in the way of making a cool thousand, 
Delaware,” he said, nervously, ''if you will place me where 
I can overhear what is going on in there.” 

"You know how useless it is to make such offers to 
me,” replied Delaware, shaking his head reproachfully. 
"You know it, Farraday, and still you will do it. Pm sur- 
prised.” 

Farraday, cursing the staunch little man’s fidelity, 
turned away. 


IN WHICH BOSS WATTERSON TAKES A HAND. 275 

About ten in the morning a tall, well-built man, with 
a pale, brown-bearded face and a moody expression of 
countenance, arrived, and upon giving his name as Suther- 
land, was instantly admitted into the outer office to await 
the end of the meeting within. Mr. Delaware stared at the 
notorious lobbyist in furtive admiration. He had heard 
much of him, but rather doubted seeing him sitting there, 
that so much shrewdness, force and wickedness as was 
charged to Sutherland, could be bound up in a man so young 
and handsome. He was called the king of lobbyists. He 
had, according to popular report, engineered more measures 
favorable to big corporations through the Legislature than 
any man alive — than any dozen men. He was rather care- 
lessly attired, and sat in hat and overcoat a dejected figure, 
before the fascinated little secretary. The voices of the men 
in the inner room came out to them. Delaware could dis- 
tinguish the quiet, deep tones of Mr. Watterson's voice, and 
the roar of Dillingham’s formidable laugh came in frequent 
bursts of discordant glee. Presently the door opened and 
they came out, Dillingham, fat, red, coarse and genial, lead- 
ing, followed by Brockington and Sagamore. Mr. Watter- 
son came last, towering head and shoulders above the others. 

''Hello, Sutherland !” cried Dillingham, in his boisterous 
way. "How goes the battle?” 

"Oh, so-so,” replied Sutherland. 

He shook hands all around like an old acquaintance, 
regarding Mr. Watterson the while with scowling glances. 
The big man returned his glance with interest. In his chosen 
vocation the man was a wonder and well worth a second 
glance. 

"You look like rainy weather, Sutherland,” said Dil- 
lingham, grinning. "Come to speak with Scott, eh? Ha! 
Ha ! Ha ! Just a social visit, eh ? Oh, Lord, you’re up 
against it for fair, Henry, my boy.” 

"Come, come, Dick,” said Mr. Watterson, in the tone 
one uses in reproving an over-boisterous boy. 

Dick laughed. 

"Hot times out there, eh,- Delaware?” he said, going to 
the door. "Whose all out there?” 


276 THE WATTERSONS. 

He Opened the door a bit and peeped out. Half a dozen 
newspaper men approached him on the run. 

“Nothing to say/’ he cried, going out and closing the 
door behind him. “Not a word, boys, not a word.” 

He shook his head and laughed his boisterous laugh and 
began chaffing the boys, with all of whom he was on friendly 
terms. They liked Dillingham, for he was a jolly good fel- 
low, who would talk upon occasion. His portly figure and 
coarse, fat face lent themselves readily to laughable carica- 
ture, and his ofttimes humorous, and always interesting 
harangues, clothed in slangy phraseology, made good read- 
ing matter which was always acceptable at the home office. 
He was a rogue to be sure, a rascal of the blackest hue, but 
that did not detract in the least from his quaint personality. 

“Where is old Farraday,” he cried, looking around. 
“Ah, there, old boy! Look at him, fellers, stampin’ an’ 
chewin’ himself ! There’s a ferret fer ye ! Have we got ye 
guessin’ Farraday ? Ho ! Ho ! There’s no use in you fellers 
hangin’ around here. Nothing doin’. No, we're not plan- 
nin’ no next campaign. Think Scott would have dragged 
himself away from his home town fer that? Time enough. 
No hurry. I don’t know who’ll be our next candidate. 
Mebbe I will. Ho ! Ho ! Wouldn’t I make a swell 
Governor, now. No ! Winthrop’s a dead one. Sagamore, 
hell ! He’s too young — only forty. Ain’t dry behind the 
ears yet. Don’t care if he is Scott’s choice. Winfield Scott 
Watterson ain’t the only thing growin’ around on these 
prairies. Fm here — Richard B. Dillingham. See me? 
Well, Fve got a word in this deal. Who’s in? Well, wait. 
Yes, we’ve got Southgate on the run. We’ll send him to the 
woods for good, he seems to like ’em so well. Senator 
Nightingale’s seat? Nothing to say. Rupture between me’n 
Watterson? Ha! Ha! Ha! Wait and see. It don’t look like 
it now, does it, eh? But who knows? I might git a notion 
and join hands with Southgate, eh? Wouldn’t that be 
great ? What ?” 

He shook his great head and laughed at the reporters, 
and chaffed them in great good humor. Flis allusion to a 
possible future break between himself and Watterson pro- 
voked a thousand eager queries from the younger men. For 


IN WHICH BOSS WATTERSON TAKES A HAND. 277 

the air was full of rumors regarding that very thing. Far- 
raday, however, did not tarry to question the tricky politician 
but at the first mention of Southgate drew his huge derby 
down over his eyes, and hurried away, almost running. 

Brockington and Sagamore came out, but they proved 
even more reticent than Dillingham. They would not talk 
at all. They went away, each with his peculiar following, 
but most of the newspaper men stayed on, hoping to get a 
summons from the boss. 

Mr. Watterson, in the meantime, led the way into an 
inner room, and waving Sutherland to a seat, he walked up 
and down the room half a dozen times. 

''Well, Sutherland,’’ he said. 

"May I ask your reason for sending for me?” asked 
Sutherland. 

He had removed his hat, but still wore his overcoat, 
and sat with one leg thrown negligently across the other and 
his hands thrust deep into his pockets. 

"You have been working very hard of late, Suther- 
land,” said Mr. Watterson, softly. "You do not look at 
all well.” 

"Thanks,” replied Sutherland, dryly, "but I presume 
you did not send for me to tell me that?” 

"Yes, and to suggest a short vacation.” 

"Couldn’t think of it,” said Sutherland, with a laugh. 
"I take my vacations during the summer months.” 

"You are working on this Forestry Bill?” 

"No.” 

"I have the word of the man who handles the money.” 

"No use asking me, then.” 

"Come, come, Sutherland ; how often have I interfered 
with you in the last ten years ?” 

"It doesn’t matter; you’re interfering now.” 

"You will return this money and you will decline all 
further dealings with the men behind this measure or — ” 
"Or?” 

"I’ll make this town too hot to hold you.” 

Sutherland sat with his chin sunk on his breast, think- 
ing. Mr. Watterson stood before him frowning mightily 
while awaiting the lobbyist’s answer. 


278 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘'I don't see why I should yield to you," said Suther- 
land, looking up suddenly. haven’t the means of know- 
ing whether you’ll win or lose this coming fall. I believe 
that after all Southgate’s got you guessing." 

“I’ll give you five minutes to make up your mind," said 
Mr. Watterson, quietly. “You know what I can do, Suther- 
land." 

“If I thought that you had Southgate beaten I’d give 
in, but I don’t know that. Have you? Who’s to be your 
candidate, Watterson — Sagamore ?" 

“Will you take that vacation?" 

“Yes, of course, if you insist," said Sutherland, moodily. 
“It’s a big loss, though — a hell of a big loss, Watterson." 

“Bah!" said Mr. Watterson, with a gesture of repug- 
nance. 

“It’s the biggest thing that ever came into my hands. 
It’s an infernal shame, that’s what it is. What do you want 
to interfere with me for? Why don’t you stick to your 
business of teaching Sunday-school to the country jays you 
send up here to make laws ?" 

“Sutherland, you were intended for a better career than 
to serve as a go-between for conscienceless corporations," 
said Mr. Watterson, kindly. 

“Was I ?’’ said Sutherland, with a bitter oath. “Who 
was it that kicked me out of the career I entered upon, just 
when I had gotten a foothold? Who was it, I say? It 
was you !’’ 

“You know why, Sutherland," said Mr. Watterson, in 
the same kindly tone as before. “You started right. You 
had a brilliant future before you. I did much in winning 
you the nomination. You know that. You were brilliant, 
yes, but erratic, too — flighty, as Dick put it, but he gave you 
the chance at my earnest solicitation. You won ; you came 
to Springfield at twenty-five, a member of the body in which 
Lincoln served. But how did you use your opportunities? 
With a fine record behind you, with a host of friends and 
well-wishers around you, you sold your manhood for a few 
miserable dollars." 

“You gave me no chance," said Sutherland, breathing 
hard. 


IN WHICH BOSS WATTERSON TAKES A HAND. 279 

''You deserved none, sir. You betrayed the people you 
were elected to serve. And you wanted another chance? 
Bah ! There were too many true men waiting to fill your 
shoes. Should I have put them aside for you, and risk being 
betrayed again? No, sir! You had your chance and you 
threw it aside. You proved yourself corrupt, disloyal, dis- 
honorable — a bribe-taker — and such a man is not to be 
trusted a second time. But you hurt me, Henry.’' 

"So help me God, Scott, that was the one thing that 
cut into me ! However, there’s no use crying over spilt 
milk. It’s done now and it can’t be undone. I don’t care a 
damn for the good opinion of the rest, once having lost 
yours. Will you shake hands, Scott?” 

Mr. Watterson held out his large hand with that air 
of grave kindliness that distinguished him. 

"Henry, Henry,” he said softly. "I wish — ” 

"Don’t wish it, Scott,” said Sutherland, laughing. "I’m 
all right. I’m on top. I’m not worrying. But I do hate to 
lose this case.” 

"You’ve got to give it up, Henry. Call in your men 
and give me a list of those whom you have already secured.” 

"I couldn’t in honor do that, Scott.” Mr. Watterson 
smiled. "Oh, it’s not your brand, I know,” said Suther- 
land, laughing, "but it satisfies me and secures those with 
whom I deal. I’ll send around a list of the incorruptible, 
though. So long.” 

Mr. Watterson, left alone, clasped his hands behind 
him and went walking up and down the room. He was 
deeply stirred by memories of the past. How many of his 
young men had gone the way of Sutherland ! He could 
recall a score without efifort, men of brilliant minds, full of 
promise, but morally weak. From his window he could see 
the State House, a vast and imposing structure. His am- 
bition was to send none but worthy sons of the soil into its 
halls, and into the halls of the greater Capitol. Illinois 
should be worthily represented by men of rectitude and in- 
corruptible honor, men of brilliant minds with lofty ideals 
and a high regard for the fundamental principles of up- 
right manhood. He had not succeeded always. He had oft- 
times been obliged to give way to the wishes of political 


28 o 


THE WATTERSONS. 


leaders, less conscientious than himself ; often he had been 
deceived in men as in Sutherland ; such aspirants, when dis- 
covered, were instantly suppressed. He could not forgive 
^corrupt practices, though he could understand the causes 
inducing them. There was something contaminating in the 
very atmosphere of the Capitol. Many had come out of that 
furnace bright as noonday. They were his friends. He en- 
couraged them to renewed efforts, assisted them in the up- 
ward struggle and followed their career with intense eager- 
ness. But while triumphing in their glorious manhood he 
bitterly regretted those who, like Sutherland, had fallen vic- 
tims to their greed. 

Mr. Dillingham came in noisily, interrupting his Chief's 
musing. He was accompanied by Mr. Wool worth, and fol- 
lowed by Sagamore and Brockington. 

'TVe been tellin’ Woolworth about expenses, Scott,’’ 
cried Dillingham, winking. 

^'Woolworth, you might as well surrender everything to 
him at once,” said Mr. Watterson, with a broad smile. 

‘T’m willing to put up all the money that is required, 
gentlemen,” Mr. Woolworth declared. 

‘‘We don’t require any,” said Mr. Watterson, quietly. 

“The hell we don’t,” bellowed Dillingham. “No money 
required! Well, I like that! Speak for yourself, Scott. 
You may be in this for the fun of the thing, but I’ll give you 
a straight tip, I ain’t. I’m no preacher. I’m a politician, I 
am. Who’s going to pay my expenses down here — and my 
time — fifteen thousand dollars, I figure ’em ?” 

Mr. Watterson, looking into Dick’s red face, could not 
help laughing; in fact he roared and rumbled in the most 
disgraceful manner, for Dick’s sputtering indignation was 
really irresistible. Dillingham, however, was very much in 
earnest. 

“These people are well able to pay. They’ve got money 
to throw at the birds. And I for one propose to be paid for 
coming down here and interesting myself in their business.” 

“Keep cool, Dick,” said Mr. Watterson, smiling. “Of 
course I speak only for myself, Mr. Woolworth.” 

“I’m willing to pay for services in proportion to their 
worth,” replied the lumber merchant, impatiently, “and I 


IN WHICH BOSS WATTERSON TAKES A HAND. 281 

will not consider this gentleman’s charges at all exorbitant if 
we succeed in defeating this measure. I’m not trying to save 
money. I’m trying to save myself from being ruined.” 

'‘Right, Pop !” cried Dillingham, boisterously, “and 
we’re the lads that’ll see you through.” 

“What do you mean to do?” asked the lumber merchant, 
looking at Mr. Watterson. “You held a conference this 
morning, I understand. Have you decided upon any course 
as yet?” 

“My plan is to go in and get enough votes to defeat the 
bill,” said Dillingham, bluntly. “Get ’em by hook or crook. 
I am for whippin’ all we can manage into line and buyin’ the 
rest outright. That’s the only way to do this thing and do 
it right. That’s politics, that is. Belgrave will hand over 
a dozen votes if enough coin is forthcoming. I’ve dealt with 
him before.” 

Belgrave was the acknowledged leader of the Demo- 
cratic party in Chicago and, no doubt, Dillingham knew 
what he was talking about. Mr. Watterson shook his head 
in answer to Mr. Woolworth’s glance of inquiry. 

“That isn’t my way of doing business,” said he. “Not 
one cent shall be spent to defeat this measure.” 

“Then how — ” began Mr. Wool worth. 

“If we had a majority in the house I would trust to the 
sense of right and justice of all organization members to 
vote against a bill so opposed to the interests of all land- 
owners; but we haven’t, and as I do not propose to adopt 
Dick’s methods of wholesale bribery, the only thing that 
remains for us to do is to raise such an uproar against the 
measure as to make every legislator pause and reflect before 
he votes in favor of a bill so unpopular. Public opinion is 
hard to combat, and public opinion will, if I am not very 
much mistaken, be set dead against it. You shall presently 
see how puny we so-called bosses are in the presence of the 
popular will.” 

Mr. Woolworth looked exceedingly doubtful, and Dil- 
lingham sneered with open scorn. Brockington’s expression 
partook largely of Dillingham’s contempt for such a milk- 
and-water proceeding, but Sagamore nodded reassuringly to 
Woolworth. 


282 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘‘IVe sent Sutherland out of the way/' continued Mr. 
Watterson, ''and with him gone, the opposition will be at a 
loss for some time to come, and time is all we want. By 
coming here in person I have focused the attention of the 
entire State upon Springfield, but especially that of the 
dwellers in the rural districts among whom our support will 
mainly lie. I have kept my mission a secret for no other 
purpose than to arouse a deeper curiosity. I shall presently 
permit myself to be interviewed. I will give my reasons for 
coming here; I will place the Forestry Bill in its true light 
before the public. It will be published in the metropolitan 
dailies and copied by all the country newspapers. It will be 
discussed pro and con, and this discussion will let light in 
upon its worst features. All we can do then is to await 
developments. Trust the people." 

"Hang the people," cried Dillingham. "That's what he 
calls modern politics ! Well, I like the old-fashioned way the 
best. Now, I'll tell you just what’ll happen. As soon as it’s 
known that we're against the Forestry Bill, it’ll become a 
party measure and every Democrat in both houses’ll think 
that unless he votes and works for it, he'll be playin’ into the 
hands of the Republican party. Southgate’s forces will go 
against us on general principles. They’ll put it through be- 
tween 'em and we'll be left out in the cold. That’s the way 
things'll turn out by trustin' th' people. People, hell ! First 
git a safe majority and then trust 'em, but not before." 

Mr. Wool worth seemed to be strongly of the same opin- 
ion and so Mr. Brockington. 

"How do you know that the thing will become un- 
popular?" asked Mr. Woolworth. 

"Because I know the people and have studied the meas- 
ure," said Mr. Watterson, calmly. 

"But how will the people make their disapproval mani- 
fest so as to defeat the bill ?" 

"In a hundred ways. Newspapers nowadays do not 
mould, but voice popular opinion. I shall so place the thing 
before the public that every person owning a tree, or a bit 
of land upon which a tree might be grown, will consider his 
liberties infringed upon by the passage of this bill. And 
then such a howl will go up ! It will be heard from one end 


IN WHICH BOSS WATTERSON TAKES A HAND. 2S3 

of the country to the other. The press, regardless of politics, 
must voice this public opinion. Mass meetings will be held 
in country districts. The thing will be discussed in all its 
bearings by farmers on country roads and at village stores. 
The result will be thundering salvos of disapproval and of 
menace by the country press all over the State. The mail 
of our legislators will swell prodigiously, and when they go 
to their homes of a Saturday, as most of them do, their ears 
will be made to tingle and their flesh to creep at the danger 
they run of political annihilation by forcing this measure.'’ 

“Well, I leave it all to you," said the lumber merchant 
very much reassured by the politician’s boundless confidence. 
“It seems strange to me,’’ continued Mr. Woolworth, “that 
having the power to send Sutherland away, you do not 
banish him for good and all. Keep the Capitol clear of all 
such vultures.’’ 

“Thank you,’’ replied Mr. Watterson, dryly, “I do not 
set myself up as moral censor of this commonwealth.’’ 

A very emphatic sneeze behind him made them all 
glance in that direction. A kind of screen, which stood half 
closed in an angle next the door, went down with a crash, 
revealing Farraday coolly seated in a comfortable armchair 
with his huge derby hat placed far back on his head, his 
coat sleeves drawn up and a long lead pencil in his hand. 

“Ah, gentlemen,’’ said he, looking around with a charm- 
j ing smile. “I’m exceedingly sorry for interrupting your 
very interesting conversation. I — ’’ 

“How did you get in here?’’ demanded Mr. Watterson. 

“The door stood slightly ajar, sir,’’ replied Farraday, 
deprecatingly, “and you were all so absorbed that I was 
unable to make myself heard, and not wishing to intrude, I 
sat down in the most convenient chair to await the termina- 
tion of your conference.’’ • 

“Talk about cheek,’’ cried Mr. Dillingham, laughing. 

“I suppose you heard everything that passed?’’ said 
Mr. Watterson, frowning. 

“I am afflicted with a slight deafness,’’ said Farraday, 
delicately, “and moreover paid little heed to your conversa- 
tion.’’ 

A shout of laughter interrupted him. 


284 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Ah, Mr. Woolworth, Fm delighted to see you,'’ con- 
tinued Farraday, flashing his teeth and glasses at the lumber 
merchant, who scowled back at him with anything but a 
friendly expression. "Mr. Watterson, I have just come 
from Southgate's headquarters — that is, half an hour ago," 
continued Farraday, by way of a careless reminder. "I saw 
Southgate, and upon my informing him that your presence 
here was owing solely to your opposition to the Forestry 
Bill—" 

"But how did you know?" demanded the big politician. 

"In my profession, Mr. Watterson, one learns to put 
two and two together. My kind friend Dillingham let fall 
an incautious remark about Southgate’s passion for the 
woods, and seeing my excellent friend, Mr. Woolworth, join- 
ing him shortly after, and knowing something of my excel- 
lent friend Mr. Wool worth’s late troubles with the United 
Steel, Stone and Iron men, I at once concluded that your 
visit was connected with the Forestry Bill, and as Southgate 
was for it, you would naturally be against it. Southgate 
very kindly consented to talk. I have his statement here, and 
my purpose in coming to you was to get an answer to it, so 
that your two statements may appear side by side in the 
Morning Courier^ 

"Is the dark secret already a matter of common knowl- 
edge ?" 

"It doubtless is in Chicago,” said Farraday, coolly. "I 
wired the home office before calling upon Southgate.” 

"There's a cool one," cried Dillingham. "He jumps 
wildly to a conclusion and without trying to make it good he 
wires his paper with a good deal more guess-work, Fll be 
bound." 

"No, no, gentlemen," protested Farraday, modestly, "a 
half a column, no more, I assure you." 

Upon which Dick laughed loud and long, the others 
joining him, with the exception of Mr. Woolworth, who sat 
grimly by, staring coldly at the cheeky correspondent. 

"Well, Farraday," said Mr. Watterson, "call in the 
other boys, and then you can take down my answer." 

"By no means," said Farraday hastily, "I leave it to 
you, Mr. Watterson. Don’t I deserve this beat? I worked 


IN WHICH BOSS WATTERSON TAKES A HAND. 285 

the thing out without assistance, saw Southgate, and got in 
here past that lynx-eyed Delaware and all. And must I 
share this thing with the others? That isn’t fair, gentlemen. 
Come, now, Tve got to work alone ; they’ve shut me out of 
the combine. You know that, Dick? This ain’t much of a 
scoop, but it’ll show my editor that I’m at the bat. Dick, do 
I get a few hours’ start?” 

''Sure thing !” replied Dillingham, cordially. 

"Let us hear what Southgate has to say,” said Mr. Wat- 
terson. 

"Certainly,” replied Farraday, cheerfully. 

It was not the usual angry tirade, such as Southgate 
generally indulged in, but a clean, sober review of the meas- 
ure, made very clear and readable by Farraday’s lucid style. 
He called the Forestry Bill the People’s Bill, and declared it 
to be the result of a popular demand for the preservation of 
the grand forests of the commonwealth. He charged Mr. 
Watterson with entertaining murderous designs upon the 
People’s Bill, called him the enemy of the people and the 
friend of trusts. He cried out against a body of men who, 
for the purpose of swelling their dividends, would wantonly 
destroy the natural beauties of Lincoln’s grand old State. 
The forests were Nature’s parks, God’s free gifts to the 
people, and they should be preserved with jealous care, and 
^o on and so forth. 

"Rather neatly handled, I flatter myself,” said Farraday, 
complacently. 

"Is that your’s or Southgate’s?” asked Dillingham, with 
a grin. 

"Southgate’s in substance; mine in dressing.” 

"Why don’t you dress my talk up that way when you 
trot me out, eh?” said Dick, rather enviously. 

"You’re worth too much in the original, Dick. Now, 
Mr. Watterson.” 

"Do you know the history of this measure?” 

"Sure. It’s my business to know everything. I worked 
the whole thing up for my paper. That’s how I formed the 
distinguished acquaintance of my excellent friend, Mr. 
Woolworth. Wrote him up lots of times.” 

Mr. Woolworth’s scowl attested the fact. Farraday lit 


286 


THE WATTERSONS. 


a cigarette and prepared to write. Sitting, surrounded by 
his friends, Mr. Watterson dictated his reply at length. Far- 
raday wrote with exceeding rapidity, putting question after 
question as he wrote, all tending to throw a brighter light 
upon the subject in hand. The writing finished, he read 
aloud what he had written. 

After lightly sketching the history of the fight between 
the Cairo Lumber Company and the United Steel, Stone and 
Iron workers, Farraday followed with Mr. Watterson’s 
statement. It declared in efifect that the Forestry Bill was an 
attack upon the liberties of the people. If allowed to become 
a law it would infallibly lead to greater and greater curtail- 
ment of their constitutional rights. Such a law would not 
only be an injustice to the farmer who, owning timber, could 
neither use nor dispose of it ; but it would react upon the peo- 
ple at large. It would make building practically impossible, 
as to import lumber from neighboring States would increase 
the price of the finished material to figures practically pro- 
hibitive to the vast majority of citizens; and so far as the 
furnishing of dwellings was concerned, it would mean, in 
efifect, the return to primitive rudeness and savagery. Such 
a law would be ridiculous, monstrous and impossible of exe- 
cution. It would make the State the laughing stock of the 
country and of the world. 

That was the gist of Mr. WattersoiFs reply, though it 
was drawn out to greater length, with many digressions in 
the way of reference to the various branches of business 
such a law would afifect. It would practically be injurious 
to one and all. Farraday, always prepared for emergencies, 
hastily compiled a list of articles made wholly or in part of 
wood. It embraced everything from the paper in which 
the news was printed to the farmer’s cribs and wagons; 
from the building of a house or barn to the tools of the 
everyday mechanic. Mr. Watterson laughed heartily as 
the thing grew under their hands, and Dillingham became 
positively enthusiastic, as did Mr. Wool worth. 

^Uouldn’t get a word out of him, boys,” protested the 
selfish Farraday, coming forth from the Boss’s sanctum, to 
the great astonishment of his confreres. ‘'Dumb as an 
oyster. Give you my sacred word.” 


IN WHICH BOSS WATTERSON TAKES A HAND. 287 

But the flaring headlines in the Chicago Courier the 
next morning told a different story. It occasioned great 
excitement in and around the State House. The Courier, 
which never did things by halves, devoted three pages to 
the matter, publishing a full history of the battle between 
the rival concerns, with portraits of the principals and pic- 
tures of Watterson and Dillingham, Southgate and Dixon, 
among whom the battle in the political arena lay. The 
Forestry Bill at once assumed gigantic proportions. For 
the next two weeks it was made the most important news 
feature of the State press, the topic of every editorial 
column and of pictorial satire. There appeared cartoons in 
the Democratic papers, showing Southgate, a David, doing 
battle with Watterson, a Goliath, and overcoming him, and 
the Peoria politician’s old favorite, picturing him a valiant 
St. George engaging the Dragon, Watterson, made its 
appearance again. 

In the midst of this upheaval Watterson remained 
quiet, giving out but one interview to the assembled repre- 
sentatives of the newspaper world, in which he reiterated 
his first utterances and with great emphasis denounced the 
measure as iniquitous, absurd, and harmful to the people. 
Southgate was less temperate of speech and more fre- 
quently took the public into his confidence. The movements 
of the bosses were closely watched in the days following 
and widely chronicled. Mr. Watterson called to pay his 
respects to the Governor on the morning after his arrival ; 
he visited the Capitol while the Legislature was in session, 
and was wildly cheered by the Republicans on the floor. 
He received political leaders as they arrived hastily from 
all parts of the State, eagerly tendering their services in 
defeating the iniquitous measure; he was visited as time 
passed by all Republican members of both houses, as well 
as by many men prominent in State and National politics. 
But he did nothing, said nothing, made no move that any 
one could see to gain the end he had avowedly come to 
seek. 

He read the newspapers carefully, however, and noticed 
with satisfaction how the tide, at first overwhelmingly 
against him, began to turn in his favor. In fact, the For- 


288 


THE WATTERSONS. 


estry Bill, at first little regarded, and then taken up and 
favored, because he opposed it, did not shine at all under 
discussion. The country editor, always on guard, was 
quick to note its obnoxious features. It was against the 
farmer’s interests, against the interest of land-owners, and 
the welfare of rural residents in general. After a week of 
heated discussion, it was observed that country papers were 
solidly against it. City dailies, one after another, fell into 
line, and less than two weeks after Watterson’s advent upon 
the scene the entire State press, regardless of party, may 
be said to have been against the measure. Indeed, the 
unanimity of opposition was wonderful and startling. 

It must not be supposed, however, that this opposition 
was engendered solely by the demerits of the measure in 
question. By no means. The fact that it was aimed 
against a trust was sufficient in itself to have gained it 
many supporters ; but the truth was that every editor, 
whether of city or country. Democratic or Republican, was 
disgusted with the way the thing had been handled. The 
Forestry Bill, ostensibly of Democratic ongin, drawn and 
sprung by Dixon, a Democrat, was really of Southgate’s 
manufacture. That renegade gentleman, unable to put it 
through without assistance, had enlisted a Democrat in its 
behalf, hoping with the help of Dixon’s colleagues and by 
the grace of Sutherland’s corruption fund to carry it to a 
successful issue; but, taken by surprise by Watterson, 
he had made the mistake of showing his hand. When this 
became thoroughly understood a great howl went up, and 
the Democratic press united with the Republicans in de- 
manding the suppression of this hybrid concoction. 

The tremendous pressure brought to bear by these 
vehicles of public opinion, supplemented by personal pleas, 
demands and threats of suspicious constituents, could not be 
withstood. Sutherland was gone, and with him went the 
huge corruption fund furnished by the men behind the 
measure; Marblemore and his associates remained inactive, 
paralyzed, it would seem, by Watterson’s masterly move- 
ment. With nothing to gain and everything to lose in 
supporting a measure so unpopular, every member of the 
legislative body not absolutely committed by word or deed 


IN WPIICH BOSS WATTERSON TAKES A HAND. 289 

in the past hastened to get under cover. One after another 
came out in public, protesting against the bill, and, as a 
final blow, the Chicago Courier, ever in the van with hue 
and cry raised whenever the public weal was in question, 
circulated a petition to the Governor against the Forestry 
Bill, and, receiving many thousands of names, sent a 
special train carrying the monster appeal to Springfield. 
And that settled the Forestry Bill forever. 

^'Dick,’’ said Mr. Watterson, at the end of four weeks 
of uninterrupted stay at the Capitol, ^^you’re away behind 
the times. You call yourself a politician. You ! Go to 
the nursery, sir ! ’’ 

''Oh, laugh away,’’ replied Dick, who indeed had dwelt 
in a kind of daze of astonishment for some weeks past. 
"You win hands down. But supposing we hadn’t been on 
the right side ? ” 

"You must always be on the right side, Dick,” said Mr. 
Watterson, serenely. "It’s easy — simply avoid the wrong 
one.” 

"It is marvelous,” Mr. Woolworth declared, shaking 
his head. 

"Not at all,” said the boss. "We did nothing, as you 
have seen. We simply called the attention of the people to 
the injustice of the law being foisted upon them, and proved 
to their satisfaction that the measure was dictated, not with 
a view to their interest and welfare, but as a blind, a sub- 
terfuge, to serve the business interests of self-seeking men. 
The people rose up and declared against it. It was sup- 
pressed accordingly. A peaceful revolution, that is all ; 
rather cumbersome and roundabout, but effective, as you 
have seen. Trust the people, Dick.” 

Dick grinned rather ruefully, but said nothing. 

"Well,” continued the big politician, rising, "I’m going 
home. You promised to come along, John.” 

"I’m with you.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 

'Tn politics, John,” said Mr. Wafterson, addressing 
Mr. Sagamore, as sitting opposite each other in a gorgeous 
Pullman they sped towards Clarenceburg, “you must, above 
all things, keep close to the people. The business of 
politics is one of the most fascinating pursuits in the world 
if you enter the field from disinterested motives, as it is the 
most sordid, mean and contemptible if you engage in it 
for gain. It yields more opportunities for studying men 
than any other field of human endeavor, and, to my mind, 
it leads to greater heights. You come into contact with 
the people, the great common people. You learn to know 
and to love them, and with this intimate knowledge and 
sympathy you come to look confidently into the future. We 
are always advancing, progressing, and by keeping close 
to the people you advance with them. The politician of 
today is as different from the politician of ten or twenty 
years ago as the life of today differs from the life of the 
last century. When I recall the methods employed by so- 
called bosses ten years ago, I stand aghast at their utter 
stupidity, brutality and ignorance. Our friend Dillingham 
is a survival of the past, but he and his kind will eventually 
go under before the constantly growing intelligence of the 
people. Take the present little affair, for example. You 
have seen how little I did to gain the ends I sought. I 
simply placed the matter in its true light before the people. 
They took it up, discussed it in all its bearings, and promptly 
decided it for all time. Bribery was not resorted to ; 
coercion was not needed ; brutal force was not used, and yet 
the Forestry Bill is dead and buried. The people simply 
expressed their will, and their representatives, regardless 
of party, hastened to get under cover. It was rather a 
roundabout way, I own, but the best under our present 
system of government. Our ends have been gained, our 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 2gi 

party has won great credit, and this credit will in the 
approaching campaign be of great assistance to us.” 

He paused as the train drew up and came to a standstill 
beside a small country station, amid cries and shouts and a 
general commotion that for a moment was quite unaccount- 
able in that quiet district. 

''What’s up ? ” said the politician, looking out. 

A crowd of farmers were gathered upon the platform. 
Mr. Watterson gradually became aware that all eyes were 
being focused upon his window. He drew back quickly, 
glancing in some astonishment at his companion. Saga- 
more smiled, and quickly threw open the window. 

"Show yourself, Scott,” he said, "your coming has 
been flashed along the line and they’re gathered to see 
you.” 

Such, indeed, seemed to be the case. They came 
crowding around the window with great eagerness, a 
hundred or more bearded farmers, who cheered at sight of 
him and hoarsely bellowed his name. 

"Watterson ! Watterson ! ” 

Mr. Watterson, smiling broadly, put out his hand 
to those nearest him. 

"What is it, men? ” he asked. "What’s up? ” 

"Hurray for Watterson,” was the answer, "our next 
Governor.” 

Mr. Watterson laughed. Cries of "Speech, speech,” 
came from all sides. He shook his head. 

"You knocked the Forestry Bill on the head, didn’t 
you?” cried one, chuckling in his beard. "We’d made up our 
minds to march to the Capitol in a body, if it hadn’t been 
withdrawn.” 

"It was a bad measure,” replied the boss, smiling. 

The bell rang out in warning, and slowly the train 
started. The farmers waved their hats in a parting salute 
and cheered their idol’s name. 

"Watterson ! Watterson !” And with the name vibrat- 
ing on the air the train went rushing homeward. 

"Our next Governor,” said Sagamore, thoughtfully. 
"It will come to that, Scott.” 


292 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''No/’ said Scott, shaking his head. "Our next Gov- 
ernor will, I hope, be Governor Sagamore.” 

"But if the people want you?” 

"They will respect my wishes.” 

"Scott, your place is in the United States Senate,” 
cried Sagamore. "If we win, will you let your name be 
put forward?” 

"Yes. Nightingale retires voluntarily, and, as it seems 
to be the general wish of my friends, I shall stand for the 
vacant seat. You shall have your chance, John. You are 
very strong with the rank and file of the party, and that is 
the main thing. Dillingham and the rest of the leaders, 
who, as you doubtless know, are opposed to you, will be 
obliged to yield to popular demand.” 

Sagamore nodded gravely. He was a tall, slender man 
of thirty-eight, with serious gray eyes, deep set beneath 
bushy black brows, ^nd a forehead of ample dimensions. 
His smooth-shaven face as a whole expressed firmness and 
rugged self-reliance. It was the face of a fighter, square- 
jawed and sharply outlined, with pale, thin, firmly com- 
pressed lips and a large aquiline nose, the whole overcast 
with a leathery brown complexion. His hair of an auburn 
hue, was thin, especially at the temples, which shone bald 
and white above the bronzed jaws. He was quietly dressed, 
rather shabby, indeed, but neat withal and in good taste. 
He was Mr. Watterson’s favorite among the younger poli- 
ticians of the State; a fine orator, full of native eloquence 
and fire, brainy and far-sighted, but hot-tempered and 
imperious. He was a bachelor, and rather shy and retiring 
of disposition, it was said. His fierce stand against the 
Hutchison Bill when a member of the Illinois State Legis- 
lature had endeared him to the people. He made an 
astonishingly brilliant fight, though a losing one, for the 
Hutchison Bill was passed in his teeth and made a law. 
His stand, however, had served to bring him into public 
favor, and he was now generally regarded as the strongest 
gubernatorial candidate of the Republican party. The man 
was the despair of the bosses of the Dillingham stripe. 
They hated and feared him. He was thoroughly and 
completely independent. A lawyer by profession, he made 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 293 

his residence in Jacksonville, where he had won his first 
nomination to the Legislature at twenty-eight in one of the 
frequent factional fights within the organization, in which 
Mr. Watterson never mingled, and which, under that astute 
leader’s supervision, were never permitted to aflfect the 
organization as a whole. His first act when elected was to 
publicly announce his unalterable independence of the 
organization. Mr. Watterson liked him from the start. 
The young man’s headstrong opposition pleased the big 
boss ; his brilliant and winning fight won the politician’s 
admiration. He watched over the young man, all unknown 
to the latter, with patient care. He forced Sagamore’s 
second nomination upon the local leader, and at the close of 
his second term in the State Capitol he proffered him the 
Congressional nomination of his district. They had by 
this time become strong friends and co-workers. Saga- 
more went to 'Washington, and there distinguished himself 
signally, reflecting honor upon his State and credit upon 
the organization, of which he was now a member, albeit a 
headstrong and rebellious supporter. Mr. Sagamore had 
frequently visited his political chief at Clarenceburg, 
though as it happened his visits had all been on political 
business. He was now for the first time going there as 
Mr. W.atterson’s guest. 

‘'Without undue egotism I may say that as a politician 
I am far in advance of Dillingham,’’ continued Mr. Watter- 
son, recurring after some aimless talk to the first subject, 
“and yet there is no distinction drawn between us by the 
press. We are bosses, they maintain, and as such equally 
vile. But, John, the people of this State know better. I 
have kept close to them throughout my career, and in spite 
of all the newspapers say of me they believe in me, because 
they know me. You are opposed to organization in politics, 
although you see its good effects all around you. Organiza- 
tion enables us to put good men to the front and keep them 
there. Look at Millburn of Chicago. Look at Spencefield 
of Springfield, Gilmore of Cairo and Martindale of Gales- 
burg. Look at Hitchcock, Gorman, Dwyer and others. 
Do they not worthily represent our State at Washington? 
Look at our legislators. They are the very best men 


294 


THE WATTERSONS. 


available in the State. It is true that we have black sheep, 
but they are fast being eliminated as the organization grows 
more and more perfect. The organization encourages 
honest effort ; it discourages dishonesty, and punishes 
treachery in its members by annihilation. You know that, 
John. The debating clubs which I established in country 
districts have been the means of bringing many young men 
of extraordinary merit to my attention. These men are 
taken up and encouraged to enter public life. They must 
fight their own way, of course, and outstrip local competi- 
tors, but that serves to make men and fighters of them. 
They know that they will be dropped at once, irrevocably, 
the moment they show evidence of roguery. They know 
further that honesty will be rewarded, and so we get the 
best among men in the State. Where does your objection 
then lie, John? ’’ 

‘Tt lies in the enormous power for evil given into one 
man’s hand,” said Sagamore, emphatically. ''You, Scott, 
work for the common good ; you strive to bring out the 
best that is in man. It is your pride to have the represen- 
tatives of this State pointed out at the nation’s Capitol as 
the leaders of the Union. But, Scott, supposing Southgate 
— Dillingham — Summerville — Brockington, or any one of a 
score of men whom I could name, whose evil tendencies are 
in a measure curbed through fear of you — supposing any 
one of them, I say, was placed in your position tomorrow? 
What a tremendous power for evil he would wield.” 

"The people would not tolerate dishonesty in him nor 
in hi^ organization,” said Mr. Watterson, forcefully. "I 
tell you, voters are not what they once were. They have 
awakened to their power. They demand clean, honest men 
for office, and the leader who would hold his supremacy 
must yield to their wishes. With honest men in office, the 
leader, however dishonest personally, is helpless. A leader 
nowadays must not only be trusted by the people at large, 
but by his political associates as well, and if he were dis- 
honest they could not trust him. Dissensions would in- 
evitably ensue and disruption result if a politician of the 
old stripe were placed at the head of any organization. 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 295 

The boss of the future must let the people rule through him, 
as you have seen.’’ 

''Do you think,” asked Mr. Sagamore, "that Dilling- 
ham will join forces with Southgate, as is rumored?” 

"No; that is all nonsense; false reports started by the 
enemy.” 

“I don’t know,” said Sagamore, thoughtfully. "I 
don’t trust him. He’s too shifty by half.” 

But Mr. Watterson shook his head emphatically. He 
had every confidence in his friend. 

At every station along the line they were met by 
throngs of . country people, gathered to catch a passing 
glimpse of Watterson. They cheered him uproariously, 
and shouted his name in enthusiastic acclaim. 

"Their newspapers have stirred them up,” said Mr. 
Watterson, smiling. "Ah! these country editors! Give 
me their support, and you may have all the metropolitan 
organs in existence.” 

At Clarenceburg there was again a great concourse of 
people — his townsmen — at sight of whom the big boss’s 
eyes sparkled joyously. 

"It is good to get home,” he said, stepping off the train 
and holding out both hands in warm greeting to those 
nearest him. Sherman, who was in the crowd, came to 
meet his magnificent uncle with such impetuous ardor that 
Mr. Watterson for a moment thought himself in for a 
sound hugging, but the young man only grasped his hands 
and pressed them affectionately. 

"Why, he’s towering above you,” said Sagamore, 
shaking hands with the smiling boy. 

"Towering above me,” cried Mr. Watterson, drawing 
the young man’s arm fondly through his own, "why, he’s a 
giant, John; a giant mentally and physically! You should 
hear the wordy battles we engage in, eh, Sherman? Ah, 
I’ll engage the rogue has been priming himself during these 
weeks. He’s a socialist, John, a follower in the footsteps 
of Henry George the Great — that is, if he hasn’t set up some 
new idol in my absence. Yes, a socialist masquerading as a 
Democrat. He declares that he will cast his first ballot 
against us, John, this fall.” 


296 


THE WATTERSONS. 


They were walking towards the square three abreast, 
with Sherman in the middle. The boy was laughing and 
protesting against his uncle’s warm praises. 

^‘He ought to be your son, Scott,” said Sagamore. 

‘T’m glad he is not,” said Mr. Watterson, smiling, “and 
so is he; ask him, John.” 

“Indeed I am,” said Sherman, wtih amazing earnest- 
ness. “Not his actual son, you know, Mr. Sagamore.” 

“Why, that is very strange,” said Mr. Sagamore, re- 
garding his laughing friends in astonishment. 

“This, Sadie,” said Mr. Watterson, introducing his 
friend, “is Mr. Sagamore, a friend who has promised to 
visit me, many times, these half dozen years.” 

“Winfield’s friends,” said Aunt Sadie, looking shyly 
at the stranger, “are ten thousand million times welcome.” 

Then she blushed at what in her calmer moments she 
considered a silly expression, but Mr. Sagamore thought 
that he had never received so cordial a greeting before. 

“But where is Myrtle?” said Mr. Watterson, looking 
around. 

She came in at the moment and, unaware of the 
stranger’s presence, she approached her father, smiling and 
blushing with pleasure. 

“Ah, Papa, four whole weeks !” she cried, throwing 
her arms around his neck. “Four whole weeks, you cruel, 
Papa.” 

Then she paused, coloring deeply. Her eyes had fallen 
upon Mr. Sagamore, and with an arm still embracing her 
father’s neck, she turned to him with a gentle inclination of 
the head. 

“Mr. Sagamore,” said Mr. Watterson, proudly, “this 
is my daughter. Mr. Sagamore, my friend, darling.” 

Myrtle smiled, and bowed in graceful welcome. 

“Papa’s real friends are so few,” she said, “that we 
rarely have the happiness of entertaining one.” 

“Mr. Watterson has more real friends than he knows,” 
replied Mr. Sagamore. 

“My gracious !” said Aunt Sadie, who had precipitately 
retreated before so formidable a visitor, and now stood with 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 297 

her boy in the background. “Wasn't that prettily said? 
The dear sweet child!" 

“So now we are all together again," said Mr. Watter- 
son, genially. “I give you notice, John, that you are to con- 
sider yourself one of the family. You are so thoroughly 
a politician, John," continued Mr. Watterson, seating him- 
self, after seeing his guest comfortably settled in an easy- 
chair, “that you love to spend even your leisure moments 
in political discussion. You can make your visit with us 
thoroughly enjoyable then, for we are all politicians with 
the exception of Sadie, my sister, who scorns politics and 
abhors politicians " 

“Really, Winfield," protested Aunt Sadie, turning her 
horrified eyes upon Mr. Sagamore in mute supplication. 

“Who scorns politics and abhors politicians," repeated 
Mr. Watterson, with such resolute firmness that Aunt Sadie 
could only pat her hair and gaze beseechingly around. 
“We, my daughter, Sherman and myself are fairly bristling 
with arguments, ready at any moment to engage in dispute. 
You know me, John, I am at all times prepared for your 
assaults. Sherman is bubbling over with ardor, his mind 
is full of rare ideas, which he will defend to the last gasp. 
As for my daughter — " 

“Please, Papa," said Myrtle, squeezing his arm. 

“I already number myself among Miss Watterson's 
most devoted admirers," said Mr. Sagamore. “I have been 
following your writings for some months," he continued, 
addressing the beaming girl, “they have interested me very 
much. The cause you so ably advocate is a noble one." 

Myrtle blushed with delight at praise so sweet, coming 
from a man so well known and highly esteemed. And like 
an ardent enthusiast who sees a recruit in every passing 
person she saw the great possibilities to her cause in con- 
verting a man of Mr. Sagamore’s political importance. But 
she could not in modesty reply to a commendation so direct 
and personal, and so the subject was allowed to lapse for 
the time being. 

Visitors began dropping in. First and foremost was 
Mr. Marblemore, who laughed heartily over his defeat, and 
the uproar his political subterfuge had occasioned. 


298 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''That comes of your entering politics, Andrew,’' said 
Mr. Watterson, gravely. "Stick to business and business 
methods." 

"I guess you are right, Winfield," said the banker, 
good-naturedly, "though my scheme wasn’t a bad one, eh? 
If I had only been politician enough to work it. The fight 
is on now in earnest, but we’ll probably come to some under- 
standing before long." 

Mr. Thompson called, and Judge Hammersmith, Gen- 
eral Hamilton too, and many other prominent men of the 
city. Mr. Sagamore received a good deal of attention as 
the rising star on the political firmament. 

The visitors gone they sat gayly down to supper. Mr. 
Sagamore was no conversationalist, but a good listener. He 
never wearied of observing Myrtle and of listening to that 
young lady’s discourse. She talked of many things and 
talked well of all of them, but she became most enthusiastic 
and eloquent when later, in the parlor, the young politician 
brought the conversation to bear upon the Cause in which 
she was so deeply interested. He asked, if in her opinion, 
the giving of the suffrage to women would tend towards the 
purification of politics. 

"I do believe so," Myrtle replied, "but I am not worry- 
ing about it. The purification of politics is wholly a matter 
of evolution. We do not ask for the ballot in order that 
we may purify politics. We demand the suffrage as our 
right. We are subject to the same laws as men. We pay 
taxes on property at an equal rate ; we bear the expenses of 
government — why should we not have a voice in it? Puri- 
fication of politics will work itself out in time. Our coming 
would, I believe, hasten it, but it is inevitable. Our leading 
politicians throughout the country are men of higher in- 
tellectual level than were those of twenty years ago, and 
their methods are, I believe, more honest and open. Our 
lawmakers listen now very attentively to the popular voice. 
Public opinion is coming to rule more and more every day. 
Yes, purity in politics is inevitable, and we women wish to 
work side by side with you towards that end. It means as 
much to us as to you. Our interests are identical. Women 
are entering into all the walks of life which were formerly 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 299 

monopolized by men. They are forced there by modern 
conditions. As we must share your trials, your hardships 
and your responsibilities we should be permitted to share 
your political privileges and advantages. I do not wish to 
adopt masculine customs, masculine habits, masculine man- 
ners nor dress. I do not want to be strong enough to do 
your work, but I want to help you in it. I do not want to 
: lead you, nor do I propose to follow. I do not want to go 
to war — I want to prevent war ; I do not wish to work 
against men, but with them. I do so much want to help my 
father, my brother, my husband, but in doing so I want to 
be considered as a factor in their work and not looked down 
upon as a nonentity. It is humiliating to be kept in a state 
of subjection when I can think as clearly, reason as logi- 
cally, speak as sensibly and act as resolutely as my brother. 
I am not masculine for all that, am I?’’ 

^'By no means,’' replied Mr. Sagamore, drawing in a 
deep breath of admiration as he sat watching her counte- 
nance in a glow of animation. 

'Tt is the natural desire of a reasoning human being. 
We are told that we are superior creatures, far, far above 
gross politics and all that goes with the practice of govern- 
ment, but that is manifestly an absurd statement, and those 
who most often quote it are the very ones who look down 
upon us as inferior creatures standing between men and 
children, but nearer, much nearer children. ‘Be content,’ 
they say, ‘to sit idly with your hands in your lap while we 
look after your wants and let us regulate your life for you.’ 
This was to be tolerated in the past, when woman’s work 
was confined strictly to the home, but modern conditions 
have forced her out into the world where she must fight the 
battle of life side by side with man. They are subject to 
‘■he same iron-clad rules as their brethren — indeed they are 
placed at a disadvantage, for much more is expected of them 
and the remuneration is considerably lower. Deprived of 
; the ballot they have no means of redressing their grievances. 
\ What lawmaker will interest himself in the wrongs of 
i workers who cannot vote? There is no advancement to 
be gained through them, and little glory. Men, on the con- 
trary, being voters, are considered important factors to 


300 


THE WATTERSONS. 


political success, and they have in consequence champions 
in plenty. Oh dear ! Oh dear 

She ended as usual with tears of woe in her eyes, which 
she vainly tried to laugh away. Mr. Sagamore was deeply 
impressed and not a little moved by her earnestness. He 
followed her with his eyes as she moved about the room, 
the embodiment of womanly grace and sweetness. He saw, 
her laughing gayly with Aunt Sadie, talking gravely with 
her father, and listening with a smiling face to the chattel*! 
of various girl visitors, and replying to them with merry, 
bursts of laughter. Each mood suited her, he thought^ 
She was sweet and womanly always, whether grave or gay,'^ 
sitting in pensive silence or engaged in animated conversa-i 
tion. Upon first beholding her he had thought her very 
beautiful, but seeing her later sitting between Rosie and 
Clara he began to think differently. Clara’s full cheeks and 
rich coloring quite put to shame Myrtle’s thin paleness, and 
Rosie’s soft appealing prettiness threw her thoughtful grav-^ 
ity into the severest possible contrast. No, she was not 
strictly speaking beautiful. He acknowledged thi^ with a 
curious throb of pleasure in the fact. Her face was, howH 
ever, very sweet in its purity of outline and gentleness of 
expression, implying strength at once and grave reserve. ’ 
^'No,” he thought, ‘‘she is not beautiful in the full sense^ 
of the word, but how infinitely superior to mere beauty is 
the expression of her face ! Intelligent she is above 
most women, modest beyond words to express ; loving— i 
how sweetly she came to meet her father ! Merry — her 
laughter mingles gayly with that of those chatterboxes ^ 
with a mind full of brilliant thoughts and a heart over- 
flowing with love and sympathy for her sister woman. God 
What a wife she would be ! What a wife for an ambitiousj 
man ! John, John, be careful ! 

He was a bachelor, but like most bachelors most will- 
ing to change his state if he could but find the right woman* 
He found himself weighing his chances in a possible effort" 
to win this young woman. He was much older in years 
than she ; he was poor, he was not handsome. But to offset' 
these drawbacks he was ambitious, a man of the first im- 
portance in the politics of his State, with a future bright 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 3OI 

' with promise and imbued with an iron determination to 
win the very highest political honors in the land. God ! 
how she would adorn that post toward which he aspired ! 
The first lady in the land ! She would be it in fact as well 
as in name. In an instant his resolution was taken. She 
was not a girl, he fancied, to value youth and personal 
beauty in a husband as against earnestness of purpose and 
boundless ambition. 

From the moment that he began to picture her as his 
future wife her every word and look and movement became 
of absorbing interest to him. Feeding his fancy with 
thoughts of her, his heart softened and expanded, and her 
image was indelibly impressed upon it. A bright halo 
began to form itself about her head; her cause assumed a 
newer aspect, her unselfish devotion to it glorified her in 
his eyes. He was in love. His passion rose with every 
passing moment. Imagination is a strange thing. It dis- 
tinguishes men from brutes-. 

He wondered, with a feeling of pain, if she had a 
lover. He did not once think of Sherman. His very near- 
ness to her put the boy out of his mind. Even when later, 
sitting by her side, the lad’s eager voice came to them, and 
he saw her eyes soften and become tender at the sound, 
he did not think of him in connection with her. Seeing 
that she had left her father’s side and was sitting alone, he 
had come to her, and had immediately brought the talk to 
bear on her favorite topic. 

'‘Suffrage is but an item in woman’s onward march 
toward emancipation, a most important item to be sure,” 
she was saying, when Sherman’s eager voice interrupted 
her. He was sitting beside his smiling uncle, engaged in 
eager argument. 

"But Uncle, land should be as free as air and water. 
In condemning this man simply for preaching this doctrine 
you do not disprove his theories nor explain in what way 
they are false. Now, think of the good that might be de- 
rived from them. Putting aside the city man entirely, let 
us come to your beloved farmer. A young man at twenty 
buys a small farm of a hundred and sixty acres, say — buys 
it on credit under a mortgage. How long will it take him to 


302 


THE WATTERSONS. 


pay for that farm? Why, a lifetime, Uncle. Yes. He 
works a lifetime to pay for that which he ought to have 
simply for the asking. Now, supposing the government 
owned the land. All this man would have to do would be 
to go to the county clerk and rent the land of the govern- 
ment, agreeing to pay such and such rent — or tax — per 
acre, his personal property to remain untaxable. Don’t you 
see. Uncle? The man wouldn’t be spending his life pay- 
ing for his farm. He’d pay his taxes and live comfortably, 
rear his children decently, and when he was gathered to 
his fathers his son could rent the land of the State and use 
it in the same way. Why — ” 

But just here Sherman became aware of the silence 
that had fallen upon the room, and he paused abashed, look- 
ing around in some indignation at his smiling audience. 

Mr. Sagamore turned with a smile to Myrtle. She 
was gazing straight at Sherman. Her eyes were moist in 
their deep tenderness, and her lips and chin trembled with 
emotion. 

''You see, Mr. Sagamore,” she said, smiling a little 
sadly, "we all have our hobbies. Mine you know — Papa’s 
too. Sherman’s at the moment is Single Tax. A few weeks 
ago,” she added, becoming suddenly merry, "it was the 
Initiative and Referendum, then Free Trade, then the proper 
ratio of coinage; now it is Single Tax. What it will be 
next week no one can tell, least of all himself.” 

"He has a very kind heart that boy,” said Mr. Saga- 
more. 

Myrtle nodded with a brightening of countenance won- 
derful to behold. She was thinking that that heart was in 
her keeping, and she gloried in the fact. 

"Have you a hobby, Mr. Sagamore?” she asked, de- 
murely. 

"A hobby?” he said, thoughtfully. "Yes, I believe so. 
My hobby — if what is a settled purpose may be called a 
hobby,” he said, speaking very slowly and gravely, "is to 
become President of the United States.” 

She looked at him with very large eyes of wonder, and 
noting his ample brow, his deep grave eyes and resolute 
mouth, she said, gravely: 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 303 

'‘1 believe you will attain your ambition, Mr. Saga- 
more.’’ 

He flushed to the hair, gratified beyond all expression 
and passing a big, knotty hand across his brow, he rose in 
a jerky fashion that characterized him in moments of ex- 
citement. 

''Let us join the visionary,” he said, smiling; "I am 
eager to hear him expound his Uieories.” 

"Indeed they are well worth listening to and heeding, 
Mr. Sagamore,” Myrtle replied, somewhat resenting his 
smile of superiority. "Visions they may be now, but you 
must remember that to-day’s realities were the visions of 
long ago. So the visions of to-day will be realized some 
time.” 

Mr. Sagamore raised his brows, but said nothing. 
Sherman was still arguing eloquently, and Mr. Watterson 
listening with a smiling countenance when the politician 
joined them with Myrtle. 

"Will you tell me, Sherman,” said Mr. Sagamore, 
gravely, "just what is wrong in our social system?” 

"It is all wrong, sir — all,” replied Sherman, with a 
comprehensive wave of his hand. 

"No half measures here!” cried Mr. Watterson, chuck- 
ling deeply. 

"Explain,” said Mr. Sagamore. 

"The foundation is wrong — the system upon which 
the entire social fabric is reared. The earth — the soil 
which, like the air we breathe, is God’s free gift to man, 
and like air and water should be free to all, is parceled out, 
appropriated by the most powerful — that is to say, the most 
cunning and unscrupulous. This world was made for all 
equally and should be equally enjoyed by all. We came 
naked into this world; we leave it as we came, with empty 
hands. All that is here was placed here by an all-wise 
Providence for the common use ; but society in its formation 
chose Might as its standard, and that standard has prevailed 
through all the ages. He who was the most powerful was 
hailed as the greatest; he appropriated to his use, and the 
use of his favorites, the soil that of right belonged to all, 
and the common people were made subject to this favorite 


304 


THE WATTERSONS. 


class. As time passed and the people grew in intelligence 
they came more and more to realize their wrongs. They 
rebelled, not against the fundamental wrong, but against 
one or another of the thousand and one grievances growing 
out of the original usurpation. Again and again they rose, 
and at the cost of life and blood wrested their liberties 
one by one from their reluctant tyrants. But they did not 
go deep enough. The dominant class continued in posses- 
sion of the soil — the source of all life and being, and all 
that was granted the people did not materially improve their 
condition, because what was given with one hand was taken 
away with the other — not openly, perhaps, but none the less 
inevitably. And so, in spite of certain abstract liberties 
gained through the centuries, the condition of the people 
remains the same, and will continue so as long as the sys- 
tem continues, as now to be fundamentally the same as that 
which prevailed in feudal times.” 

''An admirable exposition,” quoth Mr. Sagamore, "and 
the remedy for all this?” 

"The remedy lies in Socialism,” said Sherman, force- 
fully. "There should be no such thing as private owner- 
ship of land. The government — that is to say, the people 
collectively, should own the soil. And some day it will be 
so. This thing cannot last — poverty on one side of the 
street, wealth and waste on the other; here a millionaire 
and there a tramp. Here is a thing that will illustrate in 
little the enormity of this crime — private ownership of land. 
Dozens of men living right here in Clarenceburg, enjoying 
the best of everything, never do a stroke of work, nor in 
any way contribute towards the well-being of society. You 
know them. Uncle ! They are land owners. They inherited 
from their parents or grandparents several hundreds of 
acres of land, which cost the original owners practically 
nothing, and now they can live in luxury and idleness, 
while out on the farms the actual tillers of the soil labor 
and sweat and, in many instances, deny themselves and 
deprive their wives and children of the commonest pleasures 
of life in order to rake and scrape together the rent de- 
manded by their landlords for the use of the soil. And 
this is true of the entire State — of practically every State 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 305 

in the Middle West. The actual farmers, the men who 
plow and sow and reap are renters, tenants, the land owners 
live in cities and towns, collect their rents and enjoy life 
at the expense of the toilers. In what way do these con- 
ditions differ from those that prevailed in Europe a hun- 
dred — three hundred — a thousand years ago?’’ 

''Oh, things are not as bad as all that, my lad,” said 
Mr. Watterson, shaking his head deprecatingly. "Hundreds 
of our farmers own their own farms and farm them.” 

"Granted, Uncle, but for every hundred owning the 
I land they farm I’ll show you a thousand renters ; and even 
these land-owning farmers, for the most part, are only 
nominal owners of their farms. What with mortgages, 
debts, and so forth, most of them are in the power of 
■ bankers and money sharps generally. No, sir; when a 
! farmer nowadays has succeeded in ‘clearing his farm of all 
i incumbrances, he quits the hard life, rents out his land and 
! moves to town. The competition among landless farmers 
is so keen that the land owners can make more money rent- 
ing out their land than in tilling it. And this competition is 
: becoming more and more keen every year, and but for the 
outlet afforded these surplus farmers by the unsettled West 
conditions would be very much worse. As it is rents are 
steadily rising. Ten years ago the landlord was contented 
with a one-third share of the year’s crop; five years ago 
his demand had risen to two-fifths, while now one-half of 
I all is the rule with an additional tax of five, six or seven 
dollars per acre for pasture land. What things will come 
' to when the West is settled to the hilt I shudder to think.” 

"And yet we read of enormous crops everywhere, and 
the unexampled prosperity of the farmer,” mused Mr. 
Sagamore. 

"Those calculations are based upon the enormous earn- 
ings of the grain-carrying railroads purely, which exact 
I their tribute, no matter what the market price of grain may 
I be. Because crops are large this year it does not follow 
that the farmer has more money in his jeans than he had 
last year when the yield was slim. When crops are large 
prices drop to zero; when prices are high crops are small. 
The farmer’s profit is likely to be pretty much the same one 


3o6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


year with another; for not only is he subject to Nature’s 
whims, but there is besides the overshadowing bane of the 
wheat pit, where any brainless little idiot who wouldn’t 
know a field of growing wheat from a section of turnips, if 
he has the requisite nerve, can manipulate prices until even 
the law of supply and demand is put out of joint. I was 
talking with old Barley only this morning — you know him. 
Uncle — John Barleycorn, the biggest farmer in Clarence 
county ?” 

‘'One of my old comrades in arms,” assented the big 

man. 

“He has a farm out here near Logan’s Point — thirty- 
five hundred acres, all under cultivation. He had out a 
thousand acres of corn this year, just exactly the same as 
last ; but whereas last year he raised only forty-five thousand 
bushels in all, this year’s crop amounted to nearly ninety 
thousand bushels. But, while last year’s corn brought 
seventy-five cents a bushel, this year’s crop brought him in 
only seventeen cents. Now, figure that out and see which 
was Barley’s more prosperous year. Of course, the rail- 
road carrying this grain charged exactly the same price as 
last year, and the crops being double what they were a year 
ago their earnings were accordingly doubled. Figuring 
Barley’s prosperity on the basis of the railroad’s earnings 
this year as compared with last it would be easy to show 
that the farmer had a great deal to be thankful for — a state 
of mind at which old Barley has not yet arrived. Now, 
supposing Barley were a tenant of another man’s land, as 
eight out of ten farmers in this county are. For the use of 
this corn land he would have had to give forty-five thousand 
bushels of this crop of ninety thousand bushels to the owner 
of the land as rent before he could even begin to figure on 
recovering his running expenses — to say nothing of profits 
which at seventeen cents a bushel would be — what? A 
mass of debts ! Nothing more.” 

“And yet, Sherman, this same Barley twenty-five years 
ago hadn’t a dollar,” observed Mr. Watterson, “and now 
he owns thirty-five hundred acres of the richest land in 
the county — worth a hundred dollars an acre I should say, 
every foot of it.” 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE FORMS A RESOLUTION. 307 

‘'And farms it, too, it seems,'' interposed Mr. Saga- 
more, dryly. 

“Just so," Sherman replied, in no wise daunted; “but 
any one knowing Barley knows exactly why he has risen 
so high above his fellows. In any other walk of life he 
would have done equally well. In finance, had he entered 
that field, this man, I am convinced, would have put the 
most cunning and audacious to rout. He didn't make his 
money farming. Uncle, and you know it. His land has 
been a kind of base of operations to him. That is all. He 
is a natural born trader. For twenty years he has scoured 
these prairies, covering all of ten counties, buying up hogs, 
cattle, horses and sheep, not merely by the carload, but by 
the train, shipping them to Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, 
wherever he could find the best market. He often sold his 
shipments at a loss, but far more often at an enormous 
profit. That's how Barley made his pile, and not in farm- 
ing. Now that he has retired from active trading and is 
devoting himself to farming exclusively he complains that 
his land yields him but a bare living." 

“Old Barley's stories are to be taken with a large grain 
of salt, my son," said Mr. Watterson, laughing. 

“But Sherman is right, Papa, in his main contention, I 
am sure," Myrtle said combatively. “Don't you think so, 
Mr. Sagamore?" 

“No, I do not agree with him," Mr. Sagamore replied, 
decisively. “Socialism is a dream impossible of realization." 

Which unequivocal declaration was taken as a challenge 
by Sherman, who forthwith took up the gage of battle, and 
with considerable force and fire defended his beloved 
theories. In the discussion that followed the young man 
succeeded more than once in overwhelming his adversary 
with confusion. Mr. Sagamore not only was slow of 
thought and ponderous in delivery as compared with Sher- 
man, but he was by temperament unfitted for wordy battling 
in which this ardent young socialist delighted. Sherman, if 
less deep, was more brilliant and gifted with a torrential 
eloquence that swept all before it. He was deeply read in 
his subject moreover and fairly bristling with arguments to 
which Mr. Sagamore had nothing whatever to oppose, sava 


3o8 


THE WATTERSONS. 


the stock phrases which for generations have been em- 
ployed by obstructionists of every kind and calibre. The 
politician, however, through it all, retained that tone of 
calm superiority which distinguishes the self-sufficient on 
all occasions, treating the eager contentions of our young 
enthusiast with a good-natured contempt that irritated 
Myrtle deeply. She herself had never taken the boy seri- 
ously, and in their daily intercourse her demeanor partook 
much of that same smiling tolerance which she now re- 
sented in Mr. Sagamore. But, nevertheless, she was 
angered by this attitude in him. She followed with interest 
the discussion, and eyery now and then joined in with a 
word in support of Sherman. Mr. Watterson sat in deep 
delight listening to it all. Nothing ever came of such dis- 
cussion of course. Nobody ever was convinced of the error 
of his views, nor induced to modify or alter in the slightest 
degree his convictions or his principles. Still and all it 
was a delightful pastime, a sort of intellectual stimulant in 
which men of mind could find both pleasure and profit. 

The hour was late when the party broke up. Mr. Saga- 
more, shaking Sherman by the hand in parting for the 1 
night, declared himself vanquished for that time ; but j 
promised on some future occasion to renew the discussion, 
when he assured the young man he would be better prepared 
to meet his onslaughts. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS. 

Mr. Sagamore’s visit lasted ten days, during which he 
found many opportunities of talking with Myrtle, of observ- 
ing and studying the girl in the reality of her home-life, and 
the more he saw of her the more earnest and resolute his 
purpose became. He took a deep interest in her work, but 
the interest was inspired solely by the brave little laborer. 
It was a pleasure to arouse her spirit, to listen to her ani- 
mated discussion. She was at all times sweet and kind and 
gentle and very quiet, but when defending or expounding 
the glories of her Cause, she absolutely glowed with en- 
thusiasm. He liked to see her beautiful eyes flash, and the 
confidential tone she fell into at such times delighted him 
beyond measure. He thought that he came nearer to her 
heart at these moments, and so he constantly led her on to 
talk of her Cause. But in so doing he, without realizing the 
fact, irreparably injured his own cause. In conversing with 
him on that subject alone Myrtle came to think of him in 
no other light save that of a possible powerful ally in fur- 
thering the Cause she so warmly espoused. He came to 
be connected in her mind with it, never to be thought of 
apart from it. She was deeply grateful for his interest, but 
she thought this interest only natural to anyone who would 
earnestly look into and study the subject. It never occurred 
to her to fancy that the man was interested in her person- 
ality rather than in the Cause. She thought not of him in 
that light. She saw him through the Cause as he saw the 
Cause through her. Aside from the Cause he was to her 
but a man to be cherished as her father’s friend, a rising 
man indeed, earnest, honest, keen and scholarly, but noth- 
ing more than her father’s friend; and aside from her the 
Cause to him was monumental nonsense. He thought she 
was mistaken but adorable in her error, and he dreamed of 
turning her earnest devotion into a different channel — into 
furthering her husband’s ambition. 


310 


THE WATTERSONS. 


As time passed he came to speak more and more of 
himself, of his views, ideals and ambitions, but always of 
his own accord. She never sought to draw him out, but 
selfishly thought only of what use he might be to her and 
the Cause. 

With Sherman, on the other hand, she never spoke of 
herself or of her work, but always of him, leading him on 
to talk of himself and of his future plans, to all of which 
she listened with the deepest tenderness, her soft eyes fixed 
in loving admiration on his countenance, and her hands 
were more often than not clasping his. Sherman was not 
deep; he was not a thinker by any means. He was an 
earnest, ardent, shallow-pated youngster, thoroughly honest 
and gifted with a vivid imagination which sent him wander- 
ing from one thing to another, espousing with zeal and 
enthusiasm anything that momentarily caught his fancy, but 
remaining faithful to none. He was like rich red wine to 
Myrtle. Hearing his eager footsteps without she would 
throw aside her pen and come to him with outstretched 
hands, a picture of joy and pride and loving tenderness. 
His touch, his glance, the tones of his merry voice never 
failed to revive her often drooping spirits. There was no 
work, no thinking possible with Sherman about. 

‘'Come along, sweetheart,’’ he would say, and she would 
put on her hat obediently and go with him, strolling into 
the country through the endless prairies a silent and happy 
girl, while he talked and laughed and sang and whistled like 
a truant schoolboy. How devoted he was to her ! How 
thoughtful and tender and attentive ! Never had maiden a 
more chivalrous lover. He absolutely worshipped her, and 
in his unceasing admiration she found unending joy and 
happiness. She had her moments of depression, her hours 
of utter discouragement, but these periods were made sweet 
by her lover’s devotion. Her pen lay idle sometimes for 
days, but those days were spent with Sherman, and when 
they were passed she took up her labors with renewed cour- 
age and ardor. 

It is a mistake to suppose that all women want to look 
up to a husband as to a superior. A woman such as Myrtle 
will tolerate no superiority of mind in a husband. She 


CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS. 3II 

liked earnest intellectual men as friends and companions, 
but she passionately loved Sherman, merry-hearted, hair- 
brained addlepated Sherman, who was as open and frank 
as the day and as pure in thought and word and deed as a 
child. With her heart thus full to overflowing the thought 
never occurred to her in her selfish happiness that this grave 
middle-aged politician who was spoken of as the coming 
Governor of Illinois and whose professed ambition it was 
to become President of the United States could entertain 
thoughts of her, other than those inspired by their mutual 
interest in the Cause. She hoped earnestly to gain this 
forceful man as a co-worker, but she did not for one moment 
think of linking herself with his ambitious future. 

will not be able to come again,’’ he told her in part- 
ing, '‘until late in August — or more probably in early 
September. All indications point to a strong fight within 
the organization. It is rumored that Dillingham is about 
to desert us and join with Southgate, and I am inclined to 
accept the rumor as fact. Mr. Watterson, I know, does not 
express any uneasiness, but he is always serene because he 
has a firm conviction that right will prevail in the end. He 
has such supreme confidence in the people that he is content 
to wait. There will, I believe, be a strong effort made to 
crush him, and if Dillingham really joins forces with South- 
gate, the effort will, I fear, prove successful. A man in 
my position must remain neutral.” 

'T should think that there would be no question of 
neutrality in your mind,” said Myrtle, energetically. "You 
must side with Papa — ” 

"Yes, of course. I mean in appearance only. You do 
not understand these matters.” 

Myrtle frowned. His tone of toleration jarred upon 
her, and his smile of superiority wounded her deeply. 

"Mr. Watterson thinks it best that I remain in the 
background until after the Convention. We shall, of course, 
be in constant communication, and whatever happens on the 
surface you must always believe me to be your father’s 
friend — and yours. Will you?” 

"Yes, I shall always believe so, Mr. Sagamore.” 

"Besides, you will write to me regarding your work?” 


312 


THE WATTERSONS. 


he continued, ''and permit me to write to you? There is 
yet much for me to learn, and it is just possible that I may 
be of some assistance to you/' 

"Yes, yes, I will write," said Myrtle, eagerly. "If you 
could only have a clause inserted in the Republican platform, 
Mr. Sagamore, favoring woman’s suffrage, it would serve 
to focus the public eye upon the question as nothing else 
would." 

"I will do my best. I need hardly tell you of the one 
man who is all-powerful." 

"I know, I know," said Myrtle, "but I cannot ask 
Papa. I could never make you understand I know, but I 
cannot bring myself to ask my honored father to do any- 
thing of which he does not wholly and fully approve. It 
would pain him to refuse me, and I cannot talk to him and 
argue with him as I can with another man. And besides, 
Mr. Sagamore, I do not want anything done for my sake, 
but for the sake of the truth and the justice of the Cause. 
Papa could not look at the Cause except through me, while 
you, Mr. Sagamore, who regard me merely as the daughter 
of your friend — " 

"Not so, not so," said Mr. Sagamore, hurriedly, "how- 
ever," he added quickly, seeing her eyes widening in aston- 
ishment, "I will see what can be done. I will talk it over 
with various influential men, my political friends and asso- 
ciates. Good-bye, Miss Watterson. Think of me kindly 
sometimes." 

Myrtle returned joyfully to her work, resolved to appeal 
to her father only as a last resort. She spoke to him of 
her Club. It^was gaining strength daily, she said, and its 
prospect of becoming a lasting institution were very bright, 
but the outlook in respect to her Cause was rather dis- 
couraging. 

"The girls, with but few exceptions, take no interest 
in the Cause for which the Club was primarily founded," 
she said, "they attend the meetings regularly, but they do 
not care to go into the subjects of study very deeply. They 
were most enthusiastic in fitting up the gymnasium and 
library, but they have come to regard the rooms as a loung- 
ing place merely. They are already talking of amateur 


CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS. 313 

theatricals and evening entertainments. Besides, Papa,’’ 
continued Myrtle, ruefully, ''I cannot enforce the rules 
against gossiping. The poor dears have absolutely nothing 
to talk about save their neighbors and acquaintances, and 
in talking of them, petty jealousies and envious feelings will 
invariably crop up. Now, I want to make the meetings as 
interesting and enjoyable as possible, and if I become stern 
and strict they will stay away. Oh dear, it is difficult. The 
gigantic organization that I dreamed of has already gone 
a glimmering. I have come to rely upon my pen and upon 
my lectures more than upon active organization.” 

“You must weed out the chatterboxes. Myrtle,” said her 
father, sagely. 

“But Papa, I want to keep them. I want to make them 
earnest working members instead of chatterboxes. The 
serious-minded woman I can win with my pen ; I must con- 
vert the others by means of personal intercourse.” 

“A very hard task, my dear,” said Mr. Watterson, sym- 
pathetically. 

“Yes, Papa, harder than I thought,” replied Myrtle, 
sadly. “You see. Papa, I cannot blame a sweet little thing 
i! like Rosie, or a bright, mischievous girl like Fanny, or a 
loving, childish girl like Daisy — I cannot blame them for 
not taking a deep and lasting interest in a subject so dry. 
They are such thoughtless little dears that I haven’t the 
heart to scold them. They would rather laugh and sing 
and dance than sit there and listen to me and to others. 
They do not mean to be thoughtless. Indeed, they try hard 
to take their minds off their dresses and their lovers long 
enough to try to understand what I am talking about, but 
they can’t. They are like children, very sweet and lovable 
but without thought or care.” 

“Do you think then, my dear,” hinted her father, 
gently, “that little Rosie who is so sweet and Fanny who is 
so mischievous, and Daisy who is so childlike, ought to have 
the ballot — that they are fit to exercise the suffrage if it 
were granted them? They do not understand, nor care to 
understand what it is all about.” 

“Oh, Papa, if you are so unfair, what must other men 
be?” cried Myrtle, in despair. “Does every man that has 


314 


THE WATTERSONS. 


the ballot understand or care to understand the immense im- 
portance of the thing he carelessly owns ? I have seen men, 
God help me, I have seen them so sodden — but it is useless 
to talk of it. Give my three little friends the ballot and I’ll 
warrant they will soon care to understand its purpose and 
its value.’’ | 

''I wish you success. Myrtle.” j 

She kissed him tenderly. ‘‘I know you do. Papa, be- ; 
cause it is Myrtle, your daughter, whom you love.” I 

Sherman, too, sought an early opportunity to confer i 
with his uncle. He wanted to quit the Chronicle, and go | 
into the Works under Mr. Bennett, whose place he ultimately , 
hoped to fill. 

''The paper is declining all the time,” he said, "and I 
am sure my going would relieve the General. He is very 
peculiar. Uncle, as you know, and very obstinate. He does 
not strive for patronage at all, having a theory born of long 
experience that prosperity will come in full measure to him 
who deserves it. He does not understand modern business | 
methods. He does not care to adopt modern means. If a 
subscriber fails to renew his subscription to the day he will 
strike him off the list instantly, without making allowance 
for thoughtlessness or carelessness on the part of readers. 

'If my paper is worth reading, suh,’ the dear old boy says, 

'it is worth paying for.’ There was a time when the Gen- 
eral could do this without fear of losing a single subscriber. 

He never had the hard row to hoe that falls to the lot of 
the average country editor. He sprang into prominence at 
the first issue of the paper, because of the strong in- 
dividuality he managed to infuse into his writings. He was 
forceful and aggressive, keen, fearless and unrelenting. He 
became a power to be feared. But — but that day is past. 
Uncle. You understand. Uncle, that I do not mean to 
criticize the dear old man.” 

"I understand that — you are a good, modest boy. 

Go on.” 

"Well, during the past three years the falling off has 
been something enormous. We have practically no readers 
within the city now. Our advertisements are few and con- 
stantly decreasing. The paper, in a word, is held up solely 


CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS. 315 

by reason of its former prestige. The General will make 
no concessions. He will not reduce his rates below what 
they were in the days of the Chronicle’s prosperity. I can 
do nothing. If I say a word he flies into a rage. I would 
not mind that so much, but I can see it wounds him deeply 
to have his course called into question by one whom he 
loves as the dear, good old man loves me. And so I am 
helpless.” 

^'What you say, Sherman, Alls me with surprise. The 
General does not appear to worry.” 

“But he does, Uncle, only he is too proud to show it.” 

“But what is the reason for this decline?” 

“The General has, of course, made many bitter enemies. 
Uncle, and they are working, and have for a long time been 
working against him, but that in itself could not ruin the 
Chronicle. The fact is, the people have grown beyond the 
General. Journalism today is different from that of the 
past, the people no longer care for the General’s kind of 
writing. They want clear, sensible, logical reasoning. It 
no longer tickles the average reader to see a man heaped 
with abuse and vituperation. It disgusts him. As you know 
the Chronicle owed its great prestige solely to its striking 
individuality, but it has remained unchanged through a 
quarter of a century, and it now wholly fails to fill the re- 
quirements of a modern’ constituency. A younger genera- 
tion has come up ; the world has moved on and left the Gen- 
eral far behind. Another thing, the Chronicle is a weekly 
paper, and a weekly newspaper is now no longer possible. 
There are three daily newspapers in Clarenceburg, all 
modern and up to date in all their features. Our news col- 
umns are filled with stuff a week old, and your modern news 
reader wants to know in the evening what has happened that 
morning in India, Africa or Siberia. Moreover, each of 
the other papers publishes a weekly edition for country 
readers which in every way surpasses the old-fashioned 
Chronicle, and while their cost does not exceed five cents a 
copy, the General demands ten cents for his paper. You 
can see then how our younger rivals have outstripped us. 
The General cannot understand it at all. The dear old boy 
talks about the degenerate times, when the fault is really 


3i6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


his own. In a word, Uncle, the paper has been pushed to 
the wall ; it is still read on the farms, but its subscription list 
is a very short one, and this decline has. been going on for 
years. The General has been going down into his pocket to 
fill in the holes ; he never says a word, but carries his proud 
head as high as he has ever done. When money is needed it 
is forthcoming, but it is only a matter of time. Uncle,” con- 
cluded the boy with a shaking voice, “when he can no longer 
find the revenues of war ; when his last dollar is gone — then 
and then only will he pause, — when he is left naked and 
alone in the world.” 

“Not alone, Sherman,” said Mr. Watterson, in a deep 
voice. “Not alone.” 

“But as good. Uncle. He will not permit you to assist 
him. He will accept nothing. Even now I can see no good 
in telling you this. If you said one word to him he would, 
much as he loves you, show you the door. My only hope is 
that in your superior wisdom you may think of some way 
of helping him without wounding his pride — secretly, you 
know. I should like to continue in the work. I believe I am 
fitted for it,” said the boy, with an air of complacency. 
“Anyhow, I like it, but I have been thinking of going into 
the Works. I have sounded Bennett and he is not adverse to 
my plan. It would relieve the General, and besides, I have 
certain theories which I would like to put into practice — ” 

“No theories, Sherman,” cried Mr. Watterson, raising 
a warning finger. “No theories, I tell you. Henry George 
will do to dream about, but — ” 

“It is only in the matter of unions. Uncle,” said Sher- 
man, laughing. “I believe in labor unions, and I propose 
to form our men into a union, so that when necessary they 
may be able to protect their own interests.” 

“Let us hope, my boy,” said Mr. Watterson, smiling, 
“that their interests will be looked to as long as the Works 
bear our name.” 

“But they should be taught to look after their own 
interests. They should be independent. And then, Uncle, 
if we could conduct the business on a co-operative basis — ” 

“Em afraid, my lad, that I shall have to watch over you 
for some years to come.” 


CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS. 317 

“Surely, Uncle, I go in only under your supervision. 
Mr. Marblemore, whom I approached on the subject, re- 
ceived me very coldly. He gave me to understand that 
brains were required in a man who would manage so 
colossal a business. 'Brains, sir,’ he repeated two or three 
times, with an emphasis signifying that your humble ser- 
vant’s garret was ill-furnished in that commodity. 'Brains, 
age and experience,’ said the banker, which puts me out of 
the running on three counts. Mr. Marblemore is like his 
daughter in his openness and candor,” concluded Sherman 
with so rueful an expression of countenance that Mr. Wat- 
terson rumbled with laughter. 

''Mr. Marblemore will find,” he said, mildly, ''that I 
have a word to say in that matter. The fact is I am heartily 
tired of this thing. I should never have followed his advice 
in forming my business into a stock company, though I do 
not deny that my having done so has enormously increased 
my wealth and business importance. Indeed, the greatness 
of the business is wholly owing to Andrew’s foresight and 
energy. The man is a wonder. The factory was a little 
one-horse concern when I took him in, but I was content 
and so was Sadie. But a dozen years or so ago there was 
a kind of mania abroad for forming anything and ever)^- 
thing into a stock company, and I gave way to Andrew’s 
importunities, greatly to my personal advantage I own, but 
somehow I was never satisfied. I would rather have the 
business in the family, and I shall so have it some day if I 
have to cut down its revenues by half. You see I am as 
old-fashioned as General Hamilton. Modern business suits 
me no more than it does him, but — ” 

''But you are wise enough to adapt yourself to modern 
conditions and the General is not.” 

''The General has never known anything of business. 
He is essentially an aristocrat. But, my boy, your leaving 
the Chronicle savors to me much of deserting the sinking 
ship; and so the General will regard it.” 

''But what can I do. Uncle? The General insists upon 
my accepting a weekly salary, and he cannot aflford to pay 
this money. You and Aunt Sadie have been so generous to 
me that I have never stood in need of it, but he will not 


3i8 the wattersons. 

listen to me. I have for years past been using it to push the 
paper in country districts, but I have now practically ex- 
hausted all territory. I propose to keep up my connection 
with the paper as far as furnishing two essays a week to its 
editorial page, if the General will permit me to do so with- 
out remuneration. I think. Uncle, that by dwelling on an 
extraordinary need of me in the Works you can so represent 
the matter to him that he will consider it his duty to advise 
me to leave him. Then, Uncle, I will act very much 
offended and sulky and finally agree to go, on condition that 
he permit me to write for the paper as heretofore without 
taxing his treasury. Will you think of it. Uncle?'’ 

‘‘Yes; but Sherman there is no need of all this. Would 
you not like to see the world, my boy? We have often 
spoken of it, you know, and you are now at the right age 
to enjoy the sights and experiences gained by extensive 
travel." 

“I have thought of it. Uncle," replied Sherman, hesi- 
tatingly. 

“Seeing the world broadens a man’s mind, and gives 
balance and poise to one who makes intelligent use of 
his eyes and ears." 

“But Uncle you never travelled?" 

“Have not I ? Why, at your age I had visited every 
city of importance in the country, and every spot of 
historic interest. Your father and I spent all our vaca- 
tions jaunting about. You should at least become ac- 
quainted with your own country before settling down." 

“The fact is. Uncle, I do not like the idea of leaving 
you and Aunt Sadie and — and — ’’ 

“And Myrtle?" said the big man, softly. 

“Yes, Uncle." 

“Have you ever spoken to her, Sherman — made an 
absolute declaration, I mean?" 

“Not in so many words. She is so engrossed with 
the Cause that I can get no opportunity." 

“You are very young, Sherman, and Myrtle too is 
young and does not mean to marry for some years to 
come. You know her theories, my son, and her determi- 


CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS. 319 

nation. On this account, if no other, you had best go 
away for awhile.’’ 

''Not until I have spoken to her. Uncle !” cried Sher- 
man, aghast. 

"Well, Myrtle is a woman of depth and understand- 
ing,” replied Mr. Watterson, slowly; "and no doubt 
knows her own mind. Speak by all means if you must. 
You have my best wishes.” 

"And Aunt Sadie’s!” 

"Without doubt.” 

"The fact is. Uncle, that unless I can go into the 
Works, the only thing left me is to go away for awhile. 
I’d like well enough to take a trip around the world, and 
if I thought a year or two of separation would bring 
Myrtle nearer to me, I’d start ofif tomorrow. Confound 
the Cause, anyhow!” he added, with an expression so 
vindictive that Mr. Watterson went off into a roar of 
laughter. 

"The higher education of women, my boy,” began 
the big man, with much gravity, "pre-supposes a race 
of men — ” 

"Don’t tease, Uncle,” interrupted the rueful lover. 
"It isn’t that I blame women for kicking over the traces, 
nor that I think Myrtle in any way wrong. She’s not. 
I believe in Woman’s Suffrage with all my heart ; but 
I wish some other fellow’s girl had stumbled upon this 
mission first. I believe sincerely that Myrtle loves me, 
but the Cause is first in her heart now, and it must be 
allowed to run its course like all things else. Will you 
prepare Aunt Sadie, Uncle?” 

"But there is no hurry, Sherman.” 

"Oh, no. In fact I shall not go — at least, I shall 
not leave the State until after the Convention. I want 
to spend a few weeks at Chicago first, however. So if 
you will suggest the thing to Aunt Sadie, I will go 
quietly about my preparations. Ah, here she comes, 
now !” 

He rose to place a chair for the good lady, who now 
came rustling in. 


320 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''I know what Auntie's visit to you portends, Uncle," 
said he ; ‘^and so I'll make myself scarce." 

''Has my boy been telling you of his plans, Win- 
field?" asked Aunt Sadie, smiling. 

"Yes, Sadie. He wants to go into the Works, I un- 
derstand. He has certain theories — " 

"So he has, Winfield!" cried Aunt Sadie, proudly. 
"My boy is the wisest boy in the world." 

"I have not the slightest doubt of it, Sadie, but he 
is still a boy, and to place one so young at the head of 
a business so extensive would be rather a hazardous 
thing to do; and, of course, you would not have him 
placed in a subordinate position?" 

"Surely not, Winfield." 

"I have been thinking," continued Mr. Watterson, 
gravely, "of placing him at the bottom and allowing him 
to work himself to the top. He could start, say as a coal 
stoker — " 

"My boy a coal stoker!" cried Aunt Sadie, holding 
up her hands in horror. 

"He is a very strong boy," said Winfield, meekly. 

"Winfield!" cried Aunt Sadie, rising in great indig- 
nation. "I am astonished — " 

"There, there, Sadie," said Winfield, hastily, "we 
will say no more about it." 

"My boy a coal stoker ! " cried Aunt Sadie, gazing in 
absolute wrath at her brother's reddening countenance. 
"How can you be so horrid, Winfield? My boy! Mine! 
My gracious me ! I never was so angry in all my life ! " 

"Forgive me, Sadie," said Winfield, humbly. 

"The very thought is wicked, Winfield," said Aunt 
Sadie, severely. 

"So it is, Sadie. But, sister mine, we must make 
up our minds to one thing. We must send the boy away 
for a while." 

"Send my boy away, Winfield?" faltered Aunt Sadie. 

"Yes, Sadie. He must travel and see the world; he 
must, as the saying is, tear himself from your apron 
strings." 

"But why, Winfield?" 


CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS. 


321 


''That alone will make a man of him. He is a boy 
still, although past twenty years of age. He is a boy and 
he will continue a boy as long as he remains with us. 
You, Sadie, are too — what shall I say — too loving? I 
do not know quite how to make you understand.’’ 

"I understand, Winfield,” said Aunt Sadie, quietly, 
"we must part, my boy and I, in order that he may attain 
his full development, which my influence over him serves 
to retard. We must part as you and Myrtle parted and 
for the same reason.” 

"My dear Sadie !” 

"I believe you are right, Winfield. But, oh, not at 
once, dear brother. Give me time to get used to the idea 
of losing my boy. Do not urge him, Winfield!” 

"Surely not, Sadie. But such a parting is necessary. 
You know how unsettled he is mentally. I believe that 
traveling about, seeing the world, and coming into con- 
tact with strange people will give him that mental poise 
which he requires to round out his manly character. Do 
not cry, Sadie, he will come back to us improved in 
every way and his heart will remain constant in its 
loving tenderness to you.” 

"I know that, Winfield,” said Aunt Sadie, and yet 
she could not still the rising sobs — "and constant to 
Myrtle, too.” 

"Do you remember the evening of his coming, Sadie?” 
said Winfield, smiling — "that was really a wonderful predic- 
tion of yours.” 

Aunt Sadie, her eyes still overflowing with tears, 
burst into a fit of laughter at this and sat for fully five 
minutes crowing and gurgling and gasping and exploding 
and beating her hands together in an ecstasy of mirth. 

"I knew it, Winfield,” she cried, as soon as she 
could speak. "I knew it. How could she resist my sweet 
boy ?” 

"Did he tell you about the General, Sadie?” 

"Yes, Winfield. I am so sorry.” 

"Things are not so bad as they seem, Sadie. In his 
prosperity the General very sensibly invested his money 
in real estate near his home. This property has now 


322 


THE WATTERSONS. 


enormously increased in value. I should say that the 
General is even now quite a wealthy man. Things are 
not so bad as they seem, my dear.’’ 

''And then, Winfield,” said Aunt Sadie, nodding, 
"you know the General has an immense estate in the 
South.” 

"No? Has he indeed? How do you know that, 
Sadie?” 

"Why — why,” said Aunt Sadie, in some confusion, 
"he told me so.” 

"He told you so, Sadie?” 

"Oh long ago, Winfield,” said Aunt Sadie, more and 
more embarrassed, "ever so long ago. Oh, Winfield, 
don’t you know? Can’t you understand? When the 
General first came to us he had no idea of staying. He 
often talked of his plantation.” 

"Not to me, Sadie.” 

"To me he did. Everything was in ruins, he said. 
He meant to return only — only,” concluded Aunt Sadie, 
in a very low voice; "he didn’t. He stayed.” 

"I understand, Sadie,” replied her brother, softly. 
"He stayed because he did not want to return alone. 
And the woman he loved would not — could not go with 
him. Is that it, Sadie?” 

"Yes, brother,” answered Aunt Sadie, with averted 
eyes. 

"Poor General ! I wish — however, it is all for the 
best, no doubt. And so this estate really exists? I must 
inquire, and if the worst comes, we will have something 
to fall back upon.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


IN WHICH THE REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE DOES HIS 

DUTY. 

Mrs. Ringrose was sitting with her newest baby in 
her arms, rocking gently to and fro, and Aunt Sadie 
bustling about the room was talking cheerfully of many 
things, when Mr. Ringrose came in softly, smiling a 
gentle pastoral smile. Pie was dressed for the street, and 
with hat and gloves in hand, stood for a moment looking 
down at the mewling babe. 

''You have not looked so well for years, my dear,’' 
he said, drawing on his gloves leisurely. "You should 
be grateful to Sister Watterson for her kind care of you.” 

"But I don’t want to walk, Mortimer,” replied Mrs. 
Ringrose, plaintively ; "and she does make me walk so ! 
You do. Aunt Sadie, you know you do!” 

"So I do, my dear,” cried Aunt Sadie, cheerily ; 
"walking is the very best of exercise.” 

"But I don’t want to exercise.” 

"Oh, yes, you do, my dear, indeed you do,” Aunt 
Sadie replied with conviction. "You only think you 
don’t. That is all.” 

She had a charming way of ignoring the timid little 
woman’s protestations which Mrs. Ringrose found irre- 
sistible. 

"Sister Watterson is quite a practitioner,” said His 
Reverence, smiling. "I have heard of marvelous cures 
wrought by her.” 

"You have heard wrong, sir,” said Aunt Sadie. 

"Not so, Sister Watterson,” retorted Mr. Ringrose, 
warmly. "After witnessing your work in my own home, 
I shall believe all I hear of you. But there is one thing. 
Sister,” he continued, in a gently chiding tone, "that you 
do in the kindness of your heart, that I do not approve 
of, and, as your pastor, it is my duty to speak of it to 


324 


THE WATTERSONS. 


you. You should not distribute wine among those whom 
you visit, Sister Watterson. Pardon me, Sister, but that 
is very wrong. It engenders discontent in the minds 
of those whose humbler lot in life makes wine a luxury, 
and it, moreover, fosters the vice of intemperance among 
those who are naturally disposed to excessive drinking. 
It is Human Nature, Sister, and Human Nature, as we 
know, is weak and erring.’’ 

''Pardon me, sir,” said Aunt Sadie, patting her hair 
gently, but speaking in a very firm voice, "if I presume 
to differ with you. I have learned by experience that 
wine is very strengthening to a body weakened by con- 
tinued illness. It encourages appetite and assists di- 
gestion in those to whom wholesome food is necessary 
to recovery. It creates a warmth in the body which, in 
health, is in my opinion hurtful, but which, in sickness, 
is very beneficial, furnishing as it does a stimulus to the 
vigorous circulation of the blood and an aid to healthful 
digestion — two functions upon the proper performance 
of which recovery and health wholly depend. In health 
we can exercise our bodies and thus bring about the 
results which in sickness must be attained by other 
means. Nor have I in any instance found,” continued 
Aunt Sadie, tucking away a score of imaginary curls and 
locks of hair, "that the drinking of wine in sickness 
creates a desire for it in health any more than for any 
other medicine. As for the discontent which you say is 
bred in the minds of those to whom wine is an habitual 
luxury, that — pardon me — is a grievous error. The 
possession or lack of the luxuries of life does not in my 
opinion constitute a distinction between people. W e 
are all equal before God and before the state.” 

To say that the Reverend Mortimer Ringrose was 
astonished at Aunt Sadie’s spirited defense, would be 
putting it mildly. He was absolutely stunned with 
amazement. The good lady sat bridling and blushing, 
a little frightened, perhaps, at her own temerity. She 
had not meant, very likely, to go so far as to positively 
rebuke the minister, but she had been obliged to defend 
herself against the same charge before, and her indig- 


REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE DOES HIS DUTY. 325 

nation was very great. It will at least be seen that His 
Reverence was no longer an angel in Aunt Sadie's mind. 

‘'No doubt Sister Watterson is right, my dear," said 
His Reverence, turning to his wife. 

He was deeply stung by the scorn with which Aunt 
Sadie had repudiated the charge peculiarly his own — that 
of fostering discontent in the minds of the more humbly 
placed citizens. He wondered as. he went into the street 
if this was the beginning of the end. Was his popu- 
larity passing thus early? He was used to it; he had 
experienced it many times : first admiration amounting 
to worship, then devotion in a lesser and lesser degree 
until a general revulsion of feeling set in dead against 
him. He wondered where the trouble lay. He could not 
divine the cause. Surely it was not so with all ministers 
— then why peculiarly with him? Did he not discourse 
eloquently, labor earnestly, sing touchingly? Did not 
he flatter, cajole, wheedle and soothe as others did? 
Did he not laugh when others laughed, weep when others 
wept, sing when others sang and dance to the tune of 
all? He visited his parishioners assiduously, talked sym- 
pathetically with them, adapting himself with ease and 
grace to their intellectual level, and even in zealous dis- 
course turned every pretty sentence into a subtle flattery. 
What then was the cause of the universal contempt in 
which his pastorate invariably ended? 

He had no genuine feeling of religious enthusiasm 
within him. He could not minister to the soul; but he 
did not for one moment think of attributing this failure 
of permanent power to his dearth of religious feeling. 
His discourses, while prettily worded and finely de- 
livered, lacked the real fire of genuine zeal. At first de- 
lightful to the ear, they gradually palled. There was 
too much of a sameness about them. They had but one 
purpose, one ending. They created self-satisfaction in 
the minds of his hearers, but no compunction, no con- 
sciousness of sin, no remorse for wrong doing. They 
pleased the shallow-minded, but gave the more thought- 
ful no food for reflection. Several of the more prominent 
of his flock had ceased attending divine service under 




326 THE WATTERSONS. 

him, and His Reverence was becoming anxious. He 
had missed Mr. Watterson of late and one or two others. 
He thought he knew the reason of Mr. Watterson’s with- 
drawal, and he had resolved that very morning to speak 
to the big politician about it. He had also thought of 
a plan which, if carried to a successful issue, could not 
but strengthen his standing with Brother Marblemore. 
If, as he feared, his popularity was indeed waning, it 
would be well to secure the good will of that all-powerful 
member. He was indebted to Sister Rosewood for much 
information concerning the weakness, the virtues, the 
foibles, and follies of the more powerful members of his 
flock, and the knowledge thus gained he used with ex- 
ceeding adroitness. He thought he knew just how far 
he could go in gently chiding this or that one, in order 
to win and sustain a reputation for a fearless performance 
of duty, and at the same time avoid wounding anyone. 
He had gone a bit too far with Aunt Sadie, as we have 
seen, and had met with a decided rebuke. He resolved to 
be more careful with her brother. 

Mr. Delaware received His Reverence with a smiling 
countenance. Yes, Mr. Watterson was in, but very busy. 
Yes, he was alone. He would announce His Reverence, 
if His Reverence would kindly seat himself. ^‘Oh, no in- 
trusion, Your Reverence, no intrusion. Ah, step right in. 
Your Reverence. Mr. Watterson is at leisure.’’ 

‘'Good morning. Brother Watterson,” said Mr. Ring- 
rose. 

“Good morning, sir,” was the courteous response. 
“Be seated.” 

The Boss’s desk was heaped high with papers, but 
the Boss’s manner was that of a man with oceans of time 
at his disposal. 

“Politics must be a very engrossing — er — pursuit. 
Brother Watterson,” said His Reverence, with a smiling 
glance at the numerous letters and papers, “very en- 
grossing, and I presume attractive to men of active 
mind?” 

“Yes.” 


REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE DOES HIS DUTY. 327 

Brother, is it not also a pursuit very conducive 
to perversion of character? I have heard so.’’ 

“It depends altogether upon the man.” 

“Not so, Brother,” said His Reverence, warmly. “I 
take exception with 3^011 there. All men are imbued with 
the same Human Nature, and Human Nature being weak 
and erring, all are alike subject to its pitfalls. I have no 
doubt, now, that a man occupying your eminent position 
in politics meets with many temptations? Of course, 
and that being the case, how can we blame or severely 
censure a man who falls a victim to the natural weakness 
of erring Human Nature? We cannot in justice do it, 
knowing that in like circumstances, all men being im- 
bued with the same Human Nature, would be alike weak 
and erring. What does all this lead to?” continued His 
Reverence, surveying Brother Watterson’s reddening 
countenance and widening eyes in smiling deprecation. 
“I have missed you. Brother, from my congregation for 
several consecutive Sundays, and I have called to remon- 
strate gently with you. It is my duty to do so. Brother 
Watterson. I made some reference to politics and the 
errors of politicians in a recent discourse of mine, and 
I have thought that they may, perhaps, have offended 
you, and I come to you privately, therefore, to explain 
my meaning.” 

He paused, a little ill at ease beneath the curious 
steadfastness of Brother Watterson’s glance. It was 
almost burning in its fierce intensity. His cheeks, too, 
usually aglow with ruddy health, were now as pallid as 
the broad brow above them. 

“Go on, sir,” said Brother Watterson, in a deep voice. 

“I did not mean to reproach anyone, least of all 
you. Brother. No, far from it. I am something of a 
student of men. I rarely err in an estimate of character 
and no one can know better than I how far above the 
average of men you are. But I also know that the man 
is a creature apart from the politician. The charges of 
political corruption made so frequently against you are 
brought against the politician and not against the man. 
Politics is a game of hazard. Ends must be gained, and 


328 


THE WATTERSONS. 


to gain them, means must sometimes be used which men 
in the ordinary walks of life would shrink from. But, 
Brother Watterson, whatever the exigencies of a given 
political situation require of you to do as a politician 
does not aflfect your character as a man nor your stand- 
ing as a Christian. When you attend divine worship on 
Sunday, you lay aside all that pertains to politics like a 
cloak, and step forth simply a man, and therefore what- 
ever your pastor may say of your ordinary occupation, 
in dwelling upon the manifold errors arising out of the 
weakness of Human Nature, you should not take offense.’' 
thank you, sir,” said Mr. Watterson ringing the 

bell. 

'fft was my duty. Brother — ” began Mr. Ringrose, 
rising in some alarm at the big man’s black scowl. 

“You have performed it, sir,” replied Mr. Watterson. 
“Delaware, show the gentleman out.” 

He stood towering in all his gigantic height above 
the cowering minister, pointing to the door. 

“Good-day, Brother,” said His Reverence, retreating 
with a sickly smile. 

Mr. Delaware was deeply agitated. He had never 
seen his mild, even-tempered Chief so very angry before. 
He positively snarled at the minister when the latter, with 
an assumption of ease, inquired after the well-being of 
Sister Delaware. Mr. Ringrose went out into the hall 
and down the steps and paused in the lower doorway to 
collect his scattered thoughts. He had laid out a regular 
plan of action for the day and he stood for a moment de- 
bating in his mind whether to carry out his original in- 
tention of calling on Brother Marblemore or not. He 
had been twice rebuffed that day, and in quarters where 
he had least expected it. The Wattersons had always 
been friendly, though to be sure he had of late noticed 
a kind of constraint in the bearing both of Aunt Sadie 
and her brother, but he had ascribed the change to divers 
reflections on politics and politicians, which he had 
thoughtlessly permitted himself to utter in one of his 
popular discourses. He had sought to smooth that error 
over, but he had somehow sunken deeper into the mire. 


V 


REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE DOES HIS DUTY. 329 

He tried to think where his ofifense lay, but could not do 
so. He shook his head sadly, and reflecting that with 
the Wattersons against him, he had all the more reason 
for Brother Marblemore, he resolutely took his way to 
the bank. 

His mission with the banker was a pacific one. He 
knew, as everybody knew, of the enmity existing between 
Mr. Marblemore and General Hamilton, but he did not 
know how deeply rooted that enmity was, how bitter 
and inexorable the principals, and so he ambitiously 
hoped to bring about a more amiable feeling, if not an 
absolute reconciliation between the two men. To do 
so would, he knew, reflect great credit upon himself. He 
thought he had little reason to doubt the success of his 
mission. He had met the General on divers occasions 
when visiting the Wattersons, and from what he had 
seen of the dignified old man in those moments of genial 
relaxation, he judged him to be a mild, good-humored 
gentleman, of a gentle and retiring disposition, a little 
old-fashioned in manner, perhaps, but without doubt 
pliable enough, if deftly handled. As for Mr. Marble- 
more, as stiff and arrogant as he was, as hard and cold, 
he believed he could so represent the matter to him that 
the banker could not but meet him half-way. At any 
rate, he could at least attempt the task without risk. It 
was a mission fully in keeping with his sacred calling. 

Johnson was not at all sure that Mr. Marblemore 
was at leisure. He would inquire. Yes, with unheard of 
condescension the banker came in person to the door 
of his private office to invite Hi§ Reverence to enter. 
He followed him in and waved him stiffly to a seat, and 
himself sat down, taking up his pen as if to intimate to 
His Reverence a need of urgency on his part. 

''Brother Marblemore,’’ said His Reverence, smiling, 
"I know what a very busy man you are and how im- 
portant to the business world, and so I will come at once 
to the cause of my intrusion. I have tried repeatedly 
to see you at your home, but my visits have all been un- 
fortunately timed — either you were away, or deep in 
mechanical experiments, at which times no servant dares 


330 


THE WATTERSONS. 


disturb you. And so I came here. I have noticed with 
sorrow the deep animosity existing between you and 
General Hamilton, Brother. It is — it cannot but be a 
painful subject to you, but it is my duty to speak of it. 
I do not know the origin of the difficulty between you — 
I have seen enough to know that all the bitterness, the 
injustice and the enmity emanates from the General. 
Your conduct throughout has been that of a devout, 
consistent Christian. You have treated his repeated at- 
tacks with the silent contempt which they deserve, and so 
in effect offered the other cheek to the smiter. But can 
you not go one step farther. Brother Marblemore? Will 
you not forgive him and extend the hand of peace and 
friendship to this misguided old man?’' 

Mr. Marblemore had listened to the foregoing in a 
kind of daze, so deep was his astonishment, so great his 
indignation that any one should come to him with such 
a proposition, knowing how the insolent old man had 
for years publicly abused, insulted, ridiculed, satirized 
and affronted him, almost deprived him of his breath. 
He sat for a time in silence regarding the minister, his 
countenance purpling with rage, his breath coming in 
short, quick gasps, his fists clinched, his whole body 
quivering with internal agitation. 

‘‘Do — do you come from him?” he asked finally, 
speaking in a barely audible voice. 

“No, no. Brother,” said His Reverence, throwing out 
both white hands in horrified expostulation. “I came to 
you first, knowing that you are in the right and he in 
the wrong, knowing, too, that you are a good, devout 
Christian — have I not reason to know it? — while he is not. 
He does not attend church at all, he is a heathen. 
Brother, a perfect heathen, and as such deserving of 
your pity and unworthy of your friendship. But let me 
plead with you. Brother. Forgive him. Show him how 
a Christian can overlook abuse born of ignorance and 
malignity. Your pardoning him would make many peo- 
ple happy, and would set a noble example to lesser lights 
in the church. It is Human Nature, I know, to cherish 
animosity; Human Nature is weak and erring, but a man 


REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE DOES HIS DUTY. 33 1 

— a Christian like Brother Marblemore — should rise 
superior to this weakness. I shall go to him presently, 
and I hope that the message which I shall carry him will 
be one of peace and forgiveness.’' 

''Yes, go to him,” roared the banker, starting up with 
frightful vehemence. "Go to him and tell him to publish 
an apology to me for as many years as he has abused me; 
tell him to go to every reader of his dirty paper, past and 
present, alive or dead, and tell each and every one of 
them that he is a liar and a scurrilous scoundrel and 
blackguard ; tell him to come to me and on his knees 
beg my forgiveness, and tell him then I would see him 
damned into the deepest depths of hell before I would 
forgive him.” 

The fury of the man’s aspect as he uttered these 
words quite terrified the minister. He sat pale and 
shrinking beneath the blazing anger of the banker’s eyes. 

"Those are hard conditions. Brother,” he said, rub- 
bing his white hands together nervously, "though I have 
no doubt that you will modify them upon reflection. I 
shall go to him and try to reason with him and endeavor 
to make him aware of his iniquity in so constantly assail- 
ing so upright, so honorable, so virtuous and Christian 
a man.” 

"Yes, go to him,” said Mr. Marblemore, knitting his 
great red hands together, "go to him by all means.” 

"Good day. Brother,” said Mr. Ringrose, rising 
promptly. Mr. Marblemore did not notice him — he had 
sunk back into his seat and now sat staring straight be- 
fore him, with an aspect so terrible that His Reverence 
was glad to make his escape. 

"Another foolish move,” reflected His Reverence, 
ruefully, "truly this is my unlucky day. Who would 
have thought that a man so stifif and cold was capable of 
such anger, such rage, such absolute madness ! I must 
go to General Hamilton and endeavor to win from him 
a formal word of apology for Marblemore. I must be 
firm with the old man — firm and stern. Mildness would 
be thrown away on him, I fancy, and should my words 
anger him, all well and good, I have nothing to lose or 


332 


THE WATTERSONS. 


gain by him, a heathen.” He walked quite around the 
square ere he had fully regained his composure. He 
patted Daniel’s woolly pate with an air of smiling patron- 
age that quite captivated the little negro, who showed 
all his ivories in a grin of breadth and pleasure, and 
hastened to announce his genial reverence to his master. 
The General was alone when the minister entered. He 
was sitting at his desk writing and smoking. He wheeled 
in his chair and confronted the minister with an expres- 
sion of countenance somewhat less genial, though not 
less courteous than that which he showed him when they 
met as fellow-guests beneath the roof-tree of his friend’s 
house. He motioned Daniel to place a chair for his 
visitor. 

‘'General Hamilton,” said Mr. Ringrose, when Daniel 
had gone, ‘T thank you for your courtesy, but I do not 
care to sit. I stand here, sir, as the representative of 
Mr. Marblemore, whose pastor I have the honor to be. 
You are wronging that noble gentleman, sir; you have 
for years past insulted him in every way, and I demand 
reparation in the form of a personal and a public apology. 
Unless you comply with my demands I shall take oc- 
casion to brand your paper as it deserves. Your conduct, 
sir, has been outrageous. Human Nature is weak, I know, 
and—” 

He got no further. The General had him by the 
collar by this time and was shaking him with a vigor 
absolutely amazing in one so old. 

“Daniel,” roared the General, “the do’h ! ” 

Daniel, never surprised at any action on the part 
of his hot-headed master hastened to obey, then stood 
aside, grinning from ear to ear to watch the struggle. 
The General with his hand twisted in the minister’s collar 
was hustling him to the door with all possible speed. His 
Reverence did not try to defend himself, but, gasping out 
feeble protestations and pleas for mercy, he sought with 
both hands to free the General’s tenacious grip, but ere 
he succeeded, the General had forced him to the outer 
door, and with a savage kick sent him staggering into the 
street. 


REVEREND MORTIMER RINGROSE DOES HIS DUTY. 333 

It was then high noon and the street was thronged 
with people hurrying homeward to the midday meal, so 
that the minister's precipitate exit from the Chronicle 
Office was witnessed by fully two score men, women and 
children. In a moment a great crowd had collected. Mr. 
Ringrose, having bfought up hard against the gnarled 
trunk of a tree that grew in front of the Chronicle office, 
stood leaning against it, staring with an expression of 
terror at the General, who remained for some minutes 
standing in his doorway, his fierce countenance livid, 
his entire frame quivering with rage. Then the door 
banged savagely and His Reverence was alone in the 
midst of the curious crowd. 

‘Tt is nothing," he said, with a sickly smile, '‘don't 
mind me. I will be right in a moment." 

But among the folk collected were various of his 
parishioners. They questioned him sympathetically. He 
explained the cause of his expulsion readily. He had 
called to remonstrate gently against the General's sense- 
less and unjustifiable attacks upon a prominent member 
of his church. He would mention no names, because 
what he had done was done entirely upon his own 
authority. He had visited General Hamilton on a mis- 
sion of peace, and General Hamilton had assailed him 
with kicks and blows. Ah ! well, it was his duty to bear 
with resignation the rebuflfs of the ungodly. 

"Think no more of it, my friends," he said, gently. 
"I . have done my duty and my soul is at peace." 

The occurrence gained circulation with astonishing 
quickness. Before night it was known all over the 
town, how the General had assailed, beaten, kicked and 
shot the Reverend Mortimer Ringrose, who was said 
to be lying at death's door, and all because His Reverence 
had sought to bring about a reconciliation between the 
choleric old man and his ancient enemy, Mr. Marblemore. 
Great indignation was expressed against the General, 
who was seen that very evening walking with great de- 
liberation towards his home, reading his exchanges as 
usual, to all appearances entirely oblivious of the dark 
glances cast upon him. 


334 


THE WATTERSONS. 


The Reverend Mortimer Ringrose kept to the house 
for several days after the encounter. The incident not 
only served to increase his popularity with his sym- 
pathetic flock, but it firmly rooted him in the esteem of 
the all-powerful banker. Mr. Marblemore called at the 
parsonage on the evening of the encounter, and in person 
tendered his thanks to his zealous champion and de- 
fender, whom he invited to dinner and ever after treated 
with the cordiality which he reserved for his warmest 
friends. ii 

The General was not without his admirers among 
the more ungodly of the city, and the prowess displayed 
on this occasion by the gallant old warrior won him 
many more, so that the storm awakened by the en- 
counter raged its full nine days. Then it subsided as j 
storms do subside, and all that served to recall the j 
General’s undying hatred was the frequent allusions to i 
His Reverence in later issues of the Chronicle, wherein ! 
he was variously dubbed ''Marblemore’s parrot,” '“Mar- 
blemore’s valet,” ''Marblemore’s nigger,” and the like. 

Whenever afterwards in their bits of gossip, the ab- 
sence of the Wattersons from their accustomed pew was 
remarked upon, the zealous defenders of His Reverence : 
pointed to this encounter, and expressed astonishment 
that people so intelligent as the Wattersons should side 
with General Hamilton, and change their place of wor- 
ship in pure friendship of so heathenish and arrogant a 
man. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


IN WHICH ONE WOMAN DECLARES AND ANOTHER CONFESSES. 

The great doors of the Marblemore mansion are- 
thrown wide, and John and James and George and Henry 
are bowing a host of visitors into the gorgeous drawing- 
rooms. Mrs. Marblemore is giving a ball, and with her 
usual splendid disregard of social laws, she has invited 
half the town to her entertainment. Pretty shop-girls 
mingle here on terms of equality with the daughters of 
substantial business and professional men, and the wives 
of artisans and grocers are made as welcome as the 
haughty dames of greater men. The banker’s lovely wife 
is equally kind to all, — a little cold, perhaps, and scorn- 
ful in manner as she greets the more exclusive of her 
neighbors who, while highly disapproving the headstrong 
lady’s course, do not, therefore, stay at home. 

The Wattersons came early in the evening, and Mr. 
Watterson at once became the center of attraction to the 
more staid and elderly gentlemen present. Sherman 
remained for a time beside his uncle while Aunt Sadie 
and Myrtle went among their feminine friends and joined 
merrily in the babble of tongues. All was gaiety and ani- 
mation. The doors of adjoining rooms were thrown open 
as the evening waxed later, and the crowd still came 
pouring in. The girls, rising on tiptoe, peeped into the 
great ball-room in glorious anticipation. The glassy 
floor which looked so tempting, the thousand flashing 
lights, the tuning orchestra, the fragrant scent of flowers 
wafted from the neighboring conservatory, all combined 
to fill their hearts with fluttering joy and happiness. 

For what may not such an evening bring forth? 
Many a happy wife dated her happiness from one of 
Mrs. Marblemore’s grand parties; and every little maid 
present knew it and realized her opportunity, and hoped 
ardently to profit by it. No wonder the numberless 


336 


THE WATTERSONS. 


bright eyes turned upon the kind banker’s lady shone 
with love and .admiration. 

Mr. Marblemore, looking somewhat ill at ease in a 
dress suit of the conventional cut, donned in honor of 
the occasion, remained almost all the evening in a spa- 
cious alcove chatting with Mr. Watterson and one or two 
out-of-town business associates, his guests for the time 
being. His admiring eyes were often turned towards 
the door where his beautiful wife stood receiving her 
guests. All our old acquaintances were there — Messrs. 
Dayton, Everhart, Langhorn and Bennett, leading busi- 
ness men of the city. Likewise Billy Boyle and Mr. Gor- 
mon, with various colleagues in the city council. There 
were Mr. Jocelyn of Chicago and Mr. Andrews of Peoria, 
both well known in financial circles. Their talk was 
mainly of business ; but in time the conversation drifted 
to general news of current interest, and finally into poli- 
tics. Mr. Jocelyn was curious to know how the battle 
between the Dillingham-Southgate faction and the reg- 
ular organization would end. That such a battle was im- 
minent he was sure. The newspapers about this time 
were full of Dillingham and Southgate and a certain 
offensive alliance which the two were said to have formed 
against Watterson and the organization. Mr. Jocelyn 
looked inquiringly at Mr. Watterson as he put the ques- 
tion. Mr. Watterson rarely talked politics in public. 
He smilingly assented to all of Mr. Jocelyn’s specula- 
tions, suppositions, predictions and insinuations, but said 
never a word either to affirm or deny them. 

'‘Dillingham has joined hands with Southgate,” said 
Mr. Jocelyn. "There can be no doubt about that.” 

"No?” said Mr. Watterson, raising his eyebrows. 

"And they are very strong. They’ll split the Repub- 
lican party in the State from center to circumference, 
mark my words. And they’ll win out. The territory 
they hold, though small in area, out-balances the rest of 
the State in point of population. And population is what 
counts.” 

"Yes,” said Mr. Watterson, approvingly. 

"Votes are what count,” interrupted Mr. Marble- 


ONE WOMAN DECLARES AND ANOTHER CONFESSES. 337 

more, weightily, ''and the Republicans' strength lies 
mainly in the rural districts. The large cities where the 
Dillingham-Southgate forces lie are Democratic, and 
Democratic voters cannot hurt the organization as a 
body." 

"Cook County as a whole is Republican," said An- 
drews, stoutly, "and Dillingham controls the county. 
My friend, Mr. Woolworth, with whom I spoke the other 
day, expressed himself very strongly on the subject. He 
does not like the outlook for the organization. He be- 
lieves that the Dillingham-Southgate combination will 
down it utterly." 

"I have a very high regard for Mr. Wool worth's 
shrewdness — in business matters," said Mr. Watterson, 
mildly. 

"But Mr. Andrews and I agree with him," said Mr. 
Jocelyn, forcefully. "He thinks that you will be forced 
to the wall." 

"That is your opinion, is it?" said Mr. Watterson, 
clasping his hands behind him and smiling gently. 

"Yes — Mr. Andrews' and mine," replied Mr. Jocelyn. 

He looked up at Mr. Watterson eagerly, as did the 
others. The big man's large brown eyes roved carelessly 
over the assembly. They dwelt for the space of a single 
second on Mrs. Marblemore, as she bent in graceful 
acknowledgment to the greeting of the Reverend Morti- 
mer Ringrose. He frowned and looked away. He saw 
Aunt Sadie in the center of the very largest group of 
women. She was talking away with great animation and 
bursting every now and then into merry laughter. 
Myrtle, surrounded by a bevy of girls, sat in her usual 
thoughtful attitude, half listening to the babble of 
tongues around her, half abstracted in a fit of musing. 

"Quite a gathering, Andrew," he said, turning to his 
host. 

"But, Mr. Watterson — " began Mr. Jocelyn. 

"Talk business to me, Jocelyn, as much as you like 
and at any time you like, but don't talk politics to a 
politician," said Mr. Marblemore, smiling. 


338 


THE WATTERSONS. 


He turned with the utmost cordiality to meet His 
Reverence, who came up at this moment. 

''Ah, Brother Ringrose,'' he said, genially, 'Tin 
pleased to see you, very pleased.” 

"Thank you. Brother,” replied His Reverence, rather 
wincing, as he surrendered his fine white hand into the 
banker's powerful grip. 

Mr. Watterson remained serenely standing with his 
hands clasped behind him while the minister showered 
greetings all around him. 

"Ah, Brother Watterson,” said His Reverence, softly, 
"a pleasant evening.” 

Mr. Watterson deliberately surveyed the man as he 
stood before him, smiling and holding out his hand. 

"Yes,” he said, slowly, "a pleasant evening.” 

But his hands remained clasped behind him and his 
stern glance remained fixed upon the minister's face. Mr. 
Ringrose colored, then grew pale, and dropping his hand 
to his side, he stepped back, looking around quickly. He 
encountered many astonished eyes. It seemed to him 
that every person in that vast assembly had witnessed his 
humiliation. But no, not every person ! Mr. Marble- 
more's eyes were too intent upon his wife to have noticed 
it. He ranged himself beside his host, his eyes following 
the banker's glance, and more than once the object of 
their mutual regard cast a troubled glance in their direc- 
tion. 

Sherman was flitting everywhere, paying his re- 
spects to his numerous feminine friends. He was re- 
ceived kindly by young and old, for he was a general 
favorite. He smiled into the eyes of all his pretty friends 
and whispered words of roguish import the while they 
laughed brightly up at him. But though thus gayly em- 
ployed, his eyes ever wandered to a certain spot where 
sat the queen of them all, and more often than not he met 
her glance half way. Rosie was there and so, of course, 
was Elmer, but they were not together, as Sherman felt 
they should be. Rosie sat on the outskirts of a group 
of gayly chatting girls. She looked pale and worn. 


ONE WOMAN DECLARES AND ANOTHER CONFESSES. 339 

''What's the matter, Rosie?" said Sherman, sitting 
down beside her. 

"Nothing, Sherman," she replied, smiling a little. 

"But you don't look at all well, Rosie, nor happy 
like you used." 

"Don't I? I am, though." 

"Myrtle tells me that you never come to see her now. 
She feels hurt." 

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Tell her not to think of me. I 
don't deserve it," said Rosie, with a sudden rush of tears 
which she vainly sought to choke back. 

"How can you say so, Rosie?" said Sherman, deeply 
shocked at sight of her weeping. "You know that Myrtle 
loves you, and Aunt Sadie — " 

"Oh, Sherman, hush !" cried Rosie, greatly agitated. 
"Please go away; please do, Sherman." 

He obeyed her at once, wondering, puzzled and 
anxious. Had she quarreled with Elmer? That seemed 
most likely. He looked around in search of Elmer. Why, 
there he sat beside Myrtle ! He was laughing gayly and 
talking, doubtless, in his usual droll fashion. Myrtle was 
smiling. With something of the same savage impulse 
that had been his most prominent characteristic in his 
cub days, he started towards them, determined to take 
his sweetheart away from the dissipated wretch. But 
he heard his name called ere he had made half the dis- 
tance, and turning in answer to the determined summons, 
he saw Clara beckoning him. She was surrounded by 
half a dozen young men. There was young Langhorn, 
Dan Thompson, Jack Murly, old Jenkins and one or two 
others — all men about town of Elmer's stripe, and that 
young gentleman's boon companions. Delighted with 
Clara's gay repartee and masculine freedom of manner 
they were bantering and quizzing her amid much up- 
roarious laughter. Clara waved them away as Sherman 
approached, coloring with pleasure as his hand met hers. 

"You have been here half an hour," she said, re- 
proachfully, "and you did not come near me in all that 
time." 


340 


THE WATTERSONS. 


“Make him give an account of himself/' cried young 
Langhorn, grinning. “He o,wes it to you, Clara." 

She was Clara to all her male friends. 

“Didn’t you see him sitting beside pretty little Rosie 
a moment ago?" asked Jack Murly, slyly. “Better keep 
an eye. on him, old girl." 

“Hush, you fellows, and go away," said Clara, frown- 
ing, “I’m tired of you. I want to talk to Sherman and 
I do not want you about. Go away, all of you." 

They obeyed, laughing as they went, and casting 
half humorous, half envious glances at Sherman, who 
gazed ruefully after them. 

“What did you do that for?" he said, frowning. 

“Because I wished to have you alone," said Clara, 
smiling. “Now, don’t be cross, Sherman, please." 

Sherman did feel decidedly cross, nor did he try 
very hard to conceal his irritation. 

“Do you think I care for those fellows?" said Clara, 
disdainfully. “I don’t, Sherman. They amuse me and 
I tolerate them." 

Sherman still looked cross. He gazed moodily in 
Myrtle’s direction, and scowled to see Elmer still by 
her side. His rude abstraction did not anger Clara. She 
sat silently regarding him with gentle eyes. She com- 
pelled his glance by placing her hand on his arm. He 
had the grace to look ashamed, but to save his life he 
could think of nothing to say to her. The music now struck 
up a lively air, and a score of couples went whirling 
across the glassy floor in time to the delicious waltz. He 
felt that he ought to ask Clara to dance with him. He 
hesitated for a moment in pure stubbornness of spirit, 
then looking at her, he was struck by the sweetness of 
her expression as she sat regarding him. 

“Will you dance, Clara?" he asked. 

“Not now, Sherman," she replied. “Let us walk in 
the conservatory." 

Sherman gave her his arm. She glanced proudly 
around at her friends as they slowly made their way 
through the throng. She wore a low-cut evening gown 
of a pale pink color, trimmed with lace which, fitting 


ONE WOMAN DECLARES AND ANOTHER CONFESSES. 34I 

with faultless precision to her robust form, exposed to 
the full her finely rounded throat and beautiful shoulders. 
Jewels flashed in her hair, around her throat and arms 
and fingers. She looked very beautiful. They paused a 
moment to watch the dancers. 

“Do you like dancing, Sherman?'’ asked Clara. 

“No, I’m clumsy; and besides, I think an able-bodied 
man might put in his time to better advantage than in 
jumping up and down that way." 

“But jumping up and down isn't dancing, Sherman, 
and you're not at all clumsy. You're the funniest boy!" 

She laughed, pressing his arm warmly as they went 
on. The conservatory was quite deserted. They strolled 
slowly and for a time in silence through the wide center 
aisle between many rare and exquisite palms and plants 
and flowers. Sherman could , think of nothing to say, 
although he could rattle away upon occasion. Clara, too, 
was silent. She felt unaccountably embarrassed. She 
looked away, nipping the leaves of the flowers as they 
walked along. As he still continued silent, her glances 
returned to him. The strains of the dying waltz came 
floating out to them, softened by the thickening foliage. 
She drew closer to him, pressing his arm to her side, but 
still he did not speak. He looked down at her, however, 
and his glance was very kind, she thought. She held his 
eyes with a look of passionate adoration. They paused 
at that moment, having reached the extremity of the 
glass partition. 

“Shall we go back, Clara?" said Sherman, in a low 
voice. 

He felt impressed, chastened, somehow. He knew 
not why. Her eyes were very sweet. They held his 
glance for moments. The place was rather dimly lighted, 
the thick foliage screened the light and scattered it un- 
evenly. They stood in momentary shadow, but the light 
was still sufficient to reveal the girl's overpowering 
emotion. 

“Let us return, Clara," he said, hurriedly. 

“No, no," said Clara. 

She placed her hand upon his breast and looked up 


342 


THE WATTERSONS. 


at him with blushing cheeks and eager, expectant eyes. 
She was waiting for him to speak, to say something; but 
he had nothing to say. Her glance no longer compelled 
his ; her voice had broken the charm. His eyes roved 
away, troubled and sorely perplexed. 

‘'Oh, Sherman,” said Clara, suddenly, half turning 
away. “Why are you so unkind to me?” 

“Why — why ! I do not mean to be,” stammered 
Sherman. 

“But you are — at least, you are not more kind to me 
than to other girls, while I — ” 

“Let us go back, Clara,” said Sherman. 

“No, Sherman,” said Clara, beseechingly. “Why 
are you not more kind to me? Can you not see, Sher- 
man? Are you blind?” 

“Clara, Clara, we had better return. We had, in- 
deed.” 

“No, ^o, dear Sherman. Look at me. Come, Sher- 
man, do look, do look at me.” 

He did look at her shamefacedly. Her eyes were wet 
with tears, her lips trembling, her bosom heaving. She 
was very pale. 

“Clara, pray compose yourself,” said Sherman, 
eagerly. “Do not say that which you will bitterly re- 
gret, Clara — ” 

“Sherman, I love you dearly,” she said, without 
heeding his words. She colored deeply as she spoke, 
and the burning blushes dried the tears on her cheeks 
and in her eyes. “I do, Sherman, I do ! Can you not 
see? I have tried to show it to you in every way, but 
you are blind !” 

None are so blind as those who will not see. Alas! 
she knew it not. She stood before him now that she had 
spoken, confused and trembling, terribly agitated. Sher- 
man, too, was agitated, but for a far different reason. A 
feeling of exquisite pain, mingling with a deep sense of 
shame filled his mind and heart. 

“Let us go back, Clara,” he said again. “Come.” 

He drew her arm through his, but she did not stir. 


ONE WOMAN DECLARES AND ANOTHER CONFESSES. 343 

'^Give me my answer, Sherman,’’ she said, speaking 
in a low voice. 

do not know what you mean. Come, Clara.” 

''No, Sherman, I want my answer,” said Clara, very 
pale but resolute. "I love you and — and I want to marry 
you. Answer me.” 

"Clara, why will you say such things,” cried Sher- 
man, reddening. "Come, now, there’s a good, sweet girl. 
See, people are approaching.” 

"I want my answer,” said Clara. 

"Your answer to what? Come along.” 

He drew her a step forward, roughly, but she looked 
at him with such gentle, beseeching eyes that his anger 
melted into remorse. 

"Forgive me, Clara,” he said. "I’m a brute, an un- 
grateful, unmannerly brute. I am not worthy of your 
love, indeed, I am not.” 

It was her answer. She became deathly pale and 
swayed where she stood, as if about to fall. Sherman 
caught her in his arms. He held her for a moment, look- 
ing down at her scared nearly out of his wits. But the 
faintness was only momentary. She opened her eyes, 
blushing scarlet to find herself in his arms. He was 
calling her name in a low voice and kissing her in a 
passion of shame and self-reproach. She covered her 
face with her hands and burst into tears, and wept with 
her head on his breast. He tried to soothe her, but was 
himself almost overcome. 

"Hush, Clara, there are lots and lots of men a 
thousand million times better than I am who would give 
their eyes for your love. Look, Clara, if I did not love 
someone better than all the world, I would go down on 
my knees and beg you for your love. Indeed I would. 
Clara, I will go away — I am going away for several years 
and you will soon forget me and this night.” 

He said much more to the purpose, talking in a 
stammering, incoherent way, kissing her cheeks and 
hands the while, as if declaring instead of denying a 
passion. Clara gradually became calmer. The outburst 
was all the more violent because she was of the kind 


344 


THE WATTERSONS. 


who rarely give way to tears, a firm, strong, self-reliant 
young creature who bore herself bravely in the face of 
the world conquering care by defying it. 

'‘You are very good, Sherman,’’ she said. "Don’t 
mind me. I brought it on myself and I am strong enough 
to bear it.” 

"Forget all about it, Clara. It was a dream. See, 
people are coming out now in real earnest.” 

"Kiss me again, Sherman,” she said, "for the last 
time.” 

He did so, without the slightest feeling of repulsion 
such as she had always inspired in him. He had never 
liked her so well as at that moment. God, what a brute 
he was ! 

She clung to him passionately. 

"I will always remember that kiss, Sherman,” she 
said, "always.” 

"You are a good, sweet woman, Clara,” he said. 

"Whatever I am or have been, believe me, Sherman, 
I never was or will be so true a woman as I was but 
now.” 

"Are you angry with me?” 

"No, no. I am not that kind. I can take my medi- 
cine like a — man.” 

"A man ! God help us !” 

"Good-night, Sherman, I shall not return.” 

He bent down and kissed her hand. She paused for 
a moment, looking up into his face with infinite tender- 
ness. 

"You said you loved someone, Sherman,” she said, 
softly. "Who is it? Will you tell me?” 

"Myrtle.” 

Her eyes grew round with astonishment. 

"And I never suspected it!” she gasped; "you are 
so much like brother and sister that I — does she return 
your love?” 

"Yes — that is, I hope and believe she does.” 

"Ah.” 

"Forgive me, Clara.” 


ONE WOMAN DECLARES AND ANOTHER CONFESSES. 345 

“There is nothing to forgive, Sherman,’' said Clara, 
quietly. 

She smiled at him but she was very pale and her 
lips trembled. 

“Good-night.” 

She went away quickly, and Sherman walked about 
disconsolately. Other people now were strolling among 
the flowers. Jacques, Elmer’s body-servant, who ap- 
parently had been loitering behind the palms, glided by 
him, grinning behind his hand. Sherman scowled sav- 
agely after him. Had the boy been listening? More than 
likely. But no matter. Nothing mattered now, he re- 
peated, moodily. Little bursts of laughter came to him, 
soft whispering and giggling told of joyous conferences. 
He avoided the others as much .as possible. He had 
about resolved to go in search of Aunt Sadie among the 
revellers within, when he beheld her stately form ap- 
proaching. 

“My precious boy,” she said, coming up. “I have 
been looking everywhere for you. All alone?” 

“Yes, Auntie,” he replied, drawing her behind a 
giant palm and kissing her. 

“Don’t you care to dance, child?” 

“No, unless you will dance with me. Auntie.” 

Aunt Sadie laughed and shook her head. 

“My dancing days are oyer, darling,” she said, “but 
there are lots of pretty girls who would be glad to dance 
with my boy.” 

“Do you know what I would do if we were at home 
and alone in your room. Auntie ? I would lay my head in 
your lap and cry. Am I not a booby ? ” 

“What is the matter, dear? Tell me.” 

“I’m not feeling very well. I’m tired and the noise 
distracts me,” said the boy peevishly. 

Aunt Sadie quickly drew him into the light and 
looked into his eyes. They sparkled with more than 
usual brightness, and his forehead was hot and dry. 

“You are feverish, darling,” she said, uneasily. “I 
will call Winfield and do you look up Myrtle.” 


346 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘'By no means, Auntie, I do not want to spoil your 
pleasure/' 

“Pooh ! my pleasure is in seeing all of my friends so 
happy and now that I have seen them, I would like to 
go home. I have been trotting around all day and I am 
feeling tired, and poor Winfield is always bored to 
death by this kind of thing." 

“But Myrtle likes to dance. Auntie." 

“Then she may remain." 

“But who will escort her home?" 

“Oh, dear ! There are any number of young men, I 
am sure, who would be delighted — " 

“No doubt," said Sherman, with a grimace, “but I 
wouldn't like that." 

“Oh, you selfish boy !" said Aunt Sadie, laughing. 

“I will go and see her. Auntie." 

“Do, darling, and dance with her. It will make her 
happy, and I am not sure but it will relieve your head- 
ache. Winfield and I will go home." 

Rosie was sitting in the drawing-room beside an old 
lady, to whom she was talking eagerly, but her bright 
eyes were constantly fixed upon the doorway leading into 
the ball-room as if she was expecting, or at least hoping, 
for someone who never came. Sherman stood watching 
her for a moment. He saw two or three young men 
approach her, suing, doubtless, for a dance. But she 
denied herself to all. All was happiness and flashing 
gayety in the ball-room. Looking eagerly among the 
dancers Sherman descried Myrtle. She was paired with 
Elmer, going through the orderly movements of a quad- 
rille. He ground his teeth in a fury at the sight. The 
dance ended almost with his appearance, and the two 
came towards the door in which he had taken his stand. 
Myrtle was radiant, with eyes sparkling, cheeks aglow 
and lips parted in a joyous smile. She met his glance and 
tossed her head archly. 

“The next dance is mine," said Sherman, advancing 
to relieve Elmer of his precious charge. Myrtle placed 
her hand on Sherman's arm and ranged herself beside 
him quite as a matter of course. 


ONE WOMAN DECLARES AND ANOTHER CONFESSES. 347 

‘^Pardon me, Miss Myrtle,’’ said Elmer, bowing 
gracefully, '‘if you will look at your card you will see 
that the dance now forming is promised to me.” 

It was true. Myrtle looked at Sherman inquiringly, 
patting her hair with a pretty little movement, a habit 
unconsciously acquired of Aunt Sadie. Sherman hesi- 
tated for just a moment, glancing savagely at Elmer, 
then stepped back with a bow, and Elmer bore off his 
captive in triumph. Sherman stood with a scowling brow 
throughout that dance, watching Myrtle as she went her 
graceful way through the prescribed form of the dance. 
She, too, was observing him anxiously. He was a rough, 
impetuous youngster, she knew, with a temper all the 
more violent because seldom aroused. She gloried in 
that fierce spirit which she could quell with one soft word 
or glance. 

She came to him at once, the dance over. Elmer 
tried to turn her towards the conservatory, Sherman saw, 
but Myrtle shook her head decidedly and came on. 
Again she withdrew her hand from Elmer’s arm and 
placed it in that of Sherman, looking at him with the pret- 
tiest air of propitiation. Elmer did not go away as he 
should in common politeness have done, but remained 
standing in front of them, rubbing his smooth chin and gaz- 
ing unwaveringly at Myrtle. Sherman tried to stare him 
out of countenance, but Elmer would not so much as 
look at him. Myrtle glanced from one to the other in a 
kind of wonder. Until that moment she had, perhaps, 
never thought of Elmer in the light of a possible suitor. 
She had always thought of him as Rosie’s lover and 
future husband, but now the truth dawned upon her. 
Elmer was seeking to rival Sherman ! She drew closer 
to Sherman, and with a movement full of womanly grace 
and dignity, placed herself by his side. 

"Come, Myrtle,” said Sherman ; and, turning his 
back upon the other with exaggerated rudeness, he led 
the girl into the drawing-room. Elmer followed, mutter- 
ing curses. He encountered Rosie’s eyes as he stepped 
into the drawing-room. He approached her. 

"Why don’t you dance?” he said, frowning. 


348 


THE WATTERSONS. 


will, Elmer,’’ said Rosie, rising eagerly, ''with 

you.” 

"Of course,” he said, impatiently, "but you ought to 
dance with others.” 

"I would, Elmer,” said Rosie, humbly, "only I 
thought you might not like it.” 

"What folly,” he said. "Come on.” 

He led her away. Sherman caught a glimpse of her 
face in passing. It was radiant with happiness. 

"What is it, Sherman?” said Myrtle, sweetly. "Have 
I displeased you by dancing with Elmer?” 

"What lovely eyes ! ” replied Sherman, gazing deeply 
into them. "They are like heaven to me.” 

"I am sorry if I have offended you,” said Myrtle, 
casting down the lovely eyes demurely, "but having seen 
you entering the conservatory in such charming company 
I thought that you were spending your time too happily 
to mind what I was doing.” 

"Hush, sweetheart,” said Sherman, with a look of 
pain. "Are you enjoying yourself very much?” 

"Very much, Sherman.” 

"Because I’m tired of it all and want to cut away. 
Aunt Sadie and Uncle Winfield have gone.” 

"So they have,” said Myrtle, looking around for 
them. 

"Do you care to stay. Myrtle?” 

"I do so love to dance, Sherman,” said Myrtle, be- 
seechingly. 

"Well, I’ll stay on one condition — that you dance 
every number with me.” 

"But look at my card, Sherman.” 

"Ah, your card, to be sure,” said Sherman, coolly 
appropriating it. 

"But that’s wicked, Sherman,” cried Myrtle, blush- 
ing and laughing. 

"Mind, you’ve lost your card, and you’re to talk to 
no one but me. If you disobey me I’ll carry you home 
at once.” 

Myrtle laughed gayly, and they joined the merry 
throng in the ball-room. For two long hours they 


ONE WOMAN DECLARES AND ANOTHER CONFESSES. 349 

danced or strolled about together, arm in arm. Sherman 
i was silent for the most part, silent and pensive. That 
brief contact with Clara had moved him to the soul, stir- 
; ring to the depths his passion whose emanation en- 
folded Myrtle about, intoxicating the girl. When any- 
one approached to claim a promised dance, Sherman 
blandly informed him of the deplorable loss of Myrtle’s 
card, and ere the indignant claimant could voice his re- 
monstrance, he would carry Myrtle away. Myrtle 
laughed until she cried. Elmer was twice defrauded thus. 

“Card’s lost,” Sherman said in a tone of deep sym- 
pathy. “Come along. Myrtle, we’ll go search for it.” 

“Never mind the card,” said Elmer upon the second 
occasion. “The dance is mine.” 

“Oh, but Myrtle’s card is lost, my dear boy. We’ll 
have to find it and compare notes.” 

: “I wouldn’t care to dance with you,” said Myrtle, 

looking away with flushed cheeks, “unless I was quite 
■ sure.” 

“Of course not,” declared Sherman, firmly. “Might 
be mistaken. Come along. Myrtle, we’ll look in the draw- 
ing-room. I’m almost sure you lost it there.” 

Weak and exhausted from laughing and dancing and 
: constant running about. Myrtle willingly prepared for 
home along towards the wee sma’ hours when the fun was 
at its height. Sherman’s arm soon found its way around 
the slender waist as they walked slowly homeward, and 
remained there unrebuked. They paused beneath the 
I shelter of the giant oak beside the small verandah, paused, 
loath to enter and thus cut short their bliss. Sherman, 
holding his sweetheart in close embrace, gazed long and 
ilovingly into her beautiful eyes. The moon high up in 
the heavens looked down on them a silent witness. 

What curious sights that pale, chaste moon has 
i gazed upon, through its centuries of silent vigil ! What 
transports of passion ! What deeds of darkness ! What 
crimes ! What vices uncontrolled ! What scenes of love and 
joy and bliss and human happiness, such as it now be- 
i holds! The lovely eyes returned the lover’s gaze with 
a tenderness equal to his own ; the lover bends still lower. 


350 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Timidly she withdraws, but he holds her captive in his 
arms. Her lips are parted, panting. Oh, will he dare? 
Lower, still lower the lover bends until — until the parted 
lips are closed and pressed in a lingering, long-drawn ' 
kiss. 

For shame. Myrtle ! You so wise, so strong of mind, 
so firm of purpose! You yielding y^ur lips to lover’s 
kisses 1 Ah, she was but a woman, a weak and loving 
woman transported into elysium by her stalwart lover’s 
masterful embrace. She did try to withdraw from his 
arms, but he was very strong, nor would he abate a jot of 
strength to aid her weak resistance. So she lay for a ' 
while, blushing, almost swooning with joy in his arms, 
at his mercy. And the imperturbable moon beamed softly 
down upon them. 

''Let me go, Sherman,” she said, at last, confused, 
dismayed beyond all telling. For was not she dedicated 
to the Cause? 

"No!” Very firmly he said it, closing her lips with 
rare presence of mind, so that she could not protest even 
faintly. 

And she had prided herself on her power over him ! 
A word, a look, had heretofore been sufficient to restrain 
him in his most ardent moments. But now ! 

"Please, Sherman, let me go !” she implored trem- 
ulously. ] 

"Not until you tell me something,” he replied in man- ] 
ful tones. . I 

"Sherman, I am very angry !” ; 

"I don’t believe it.” 

"What would Papa — Aunt Sadie, say?” 

"Both sound asleep.” 

"Let me go. Oh, Sherman, I never would have be- 
lieved it of you. Never!” ^ 

"Neither would I,” said Sherman, grinning. - 

"You used to be so good.” 

"Fve got over that.” 

"And patient.” 

"Patience is a virtue I much admire — in others.” 

"And gentle, oh, so gentle !” 


ONE WOMAN DECLARES AND ANOTHER CONFESSES. 35 1 

''Could anything be more gentle than this, my 
sweet?’’ Once more the lips were closed and pressed 
gently indeed, but none the less with ardor. 

Now, this was very bad and lawless of him. Myrtle 
saw all her cherished supremacy vanishing, melting away, 
for his surprising masterfulness so suddenly revealed was 
very, very sweet, and she felt herself yielding more and 
more to the weakness born of womanly passion. 

"Come, confess, darling.” 

"Confess what? Please, Sherman.” 

"That you love me. Do you ?” 

"I do. I do. Now let me go.” 

Then he released her, but retained her hands in his 
and bent down and kissed them, the rogue, with a hypo- 
critical show of humility. 

She snatched them away with a charming little 
"Oh !” and fled, half-laughing, half-crying, into the 
house. 

Sherman strutted to and fro in a tempest of passion 
and elation. He gazed up at the moon, smiling tri- 
umphantly; and bestowing a wink upon that placid orb 
by way of appreciation and understanding, he turned to 
go in, when lo. Myrtle stood before him. 

She came close up to him and placed her hands upon 
his breast. 

"I didn’t mean to run away, Sherman,” she said, 
softly. "I’ve come back to you. I do love you dearly.” 

Oh, Myrtle, where now are all those dreams, those 
cherished dreams of yesterday? Equality? Bah! Eman- 
cipation ? Away ! One kiss out of the thousand im- 
pressed upon those trembling lips outbalances the loss 
of all I 


CHAPTER XXVL 


IN WHICH OUR HERO TAKES HIS FLIGHT. 

What Sherman had said to Clara about going away 
was no idle form of speech. He had thought much of 
late, and knew — or thought he knew — that however 
dearly Myrtle loved him, she would not willingly marry 
for a long time to come. She was a very strong-minded 
young woman and passionately devoted to her work. She 
would not take upon herself the absorbing duties of wife 
and motherhood until her passion for the Cause had 
abated. How could she do justice to the Cause with a 
husband and children to love and care for? How could 
she fulfil her duties as wife and mother without neglect- 
ing the Cause? One cannot serve two masters. Thus 
Myrtle reasoned and Sherman, who had studied his dear 
girl to some purpose, knew her mind well. 

And this state of things might continue for years. It 
certainly would continue while he remained at home. 
She would go on as now indefinitely, content to have the 
dear one near her, satisfied with a word of love, a look, 
a smile. But he was not. He had lived a rarely virtuous 
life until now, but he was not made of stone or wood or 
iron. He was a young man, full-blooded, strong and 
manly. He had his passions like other men ; he longed 
to mate him with his mate, and felt that he could no 
longer continue purely under one roof with the dear 
object of his desires. She was too near him in the body, 
too far away in the spirit. He must away and at once. 

And to this was now added another reason impera- 
tively demanding his flight. He could not subject Clara 
to the hourly humiliation which his continued presence 
would cause her. She would, he knew, be deeply morti- 
fied when passion gave way to sober reason once more. 
His absence would be a great relief to her, and to ease 
her mind was the least that he could do, and so tossing 


IN WHICH OUR HERO TAKES HIS FLIGHT. 353 

and tumbling through the night he determined upon his 
course. 

There was really nothing now to hold him. He was 
but a burden on the good old General. Uncle Winfield, 
however, erroneously considered him too young and un- 
settled in mind to entrust the Works to him; Myrtle had 
at last owned her love, thus forever banishing uncer- 
tainty from his mind. But oh ! there was Aunt Sadie ! 
Aunt Sadie who loved him so dearly, so purely and pas- 
sionately. How could he leave Aunt Sadie? It was 
utterly impossible. He had on one or two occasions made 
casual mention of a possible flight, and the look of woe, 
of absolute terror that had leaped to her eyes, blanching 
her cheeks and lips, had moved him to the soul. But it 
must be done. It would not be so hard after a time. It 
was the parting that he dreaded, that and breaking the 
news of his purpose to the loving woman. 

He tossed and tumbled through the night, unable to 
close his eyes in slumber thinking of all these things. It 
was not until dawn that he sank into an uneasy sleep, 
and it was very late in the day when he came down- 
stairs, but Aunt Sadie was there waiting for him, with 
that loving smile, and the look of pride and joy that he 
knew so well. But there was something more added this 
morning. She came to meet him with even more of pride 
and gladness, and a look of secret glee and exultation. 

'T'm so proud of my boy,'' she said, kissing him. 

‘'Why Auntie?" asked Sherman. 

“Oh, I know!" cried Aunt Sadie, sinking into her 
chair and bursting into delighted laughter. “I know! 

I know !" she said again, and again, her bright eyes look- 
ing out of her flushed face with a look so knowing that 
Sherman easily surmised the cause of her mirth. He had 
stood with Myrtle directly beneath Aunt Sadie's window 
last night, and knowing that she always waited up for 
him, he did not doubt that she had overheard all. 

“Oh, you wicked Auntie," he cried, gayly. “You 
heard us, did you? Then why did you not give me my 
good-night kiss? I assure you I hardly slept a wink last- 
night thinking of it." 


354 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''I did not want you to know that I had overheard 
you/’ said Aunt Sadie. ''And, oh dear, I didn’t mean to 
tell you now, only I’m so proud of my boy and so de- 
lighted with Myrtle. Oh, I knew it would be so ! I 
always said so; ask Winfield. Oh dear, oh dear, how I 
did laugh. I could not sleep for laughing, I was so 
delighted.” 

"You dear sweet Auntie,” said Sherman, tenderly. 
"And now I’ve got to tell you something that will rob 
you of half your delight,” he added, with a pang. 

"What is it, darling?” said Aunt Sadie, quickly, but 
there was no need for him to answer. She read his pur- 
pose in his eyes. That which she had dreaded so long 
was now come. She pressed her hands to her heart and 
looked at him. Sherman sank on his knees beside her 
and kissed her hands. 

"Tell me my own,” she said, quietly, "do you wish 
to go away?” 

"I must. Auntie,” he replied, "there is nothing for it. 
You know Auntie what is the dearest wish of my life?” 

"I know my love, and I was so happy last night 
thinking it so near to consummation.” 

"Not near. Auntie, but far — very far.” 

"Why — why — did not Myrtle avow her love, and is 
not that equal to a promise of marriage?” 

"Yes, Auntie, but not necessarily a speedy marriage. 
Myrtle does not want to marry yet. She loves me and 
she will marry me some day, but now she is wrapped 
heart and soul in her Cause, and being a wise little woman 
she knows that she cannot with justice to that Cause 
assume the duties of wife, and possibly the cares of a 
mother; and she also fears that the new ties, should she 
assume them, will gradually wean her away from the 
Cause. She is a very single-minded little woman. She 
throws herself heart and soul into a thing until it becomes 
a passion, and being very earnest she is never without a 
grave purpose in life. As a child her passion was her 
father; then came her studies, which were followed by 
•the Cause which now sways and colors every thought and 
eflfort of her life. Your loving boy hopes to supersede 


IN WHICH OUR HERO TAKES HIS FLIGHT. 355 

the Cause some day, and he in all likelihood will have to 
give way to her children in time to come. You see, 
Auntie, I have studied Myrtle because my sole aim and 
object was to please and win her. I know her well and 
am prepared to wait in all patience for my happiness, 
knowing how great my reward will be in the end.” 

''And so I must lose my boy,” said Aunt Sadie, with 
a deep sigh. 

"My going will, I believe, hasten my happiness. 
Auntie. It will be great and it is worth waiting a million 
years for, but I don't want to wait quite that long. 
Myrtle is content in her love to continue for years as 
we are now going on, but Auntie I am not. If I go away 
for a while she will, I hope, miss me, and it may be that 
she will come to learn that I am even dearer to her than 
her beloved Cause. It may be a year, it may be two; but 
if I stay here, Auntie, it will be much longer.” 

"But I must lose you,” said Aunt Sadie again. "I 
must lose my boy.” 

"Only for a time. Auntie. I will write to you every 
day — every single day. Auntie. May I go?” 

"Yes,” she replied, gently. She sighed again and 
then began to weep in that soft, silent way that is more 
touching than the most convulsive sobbing. 

"When will you start, my own?” asked Aunt Sadie, 
after a time. 

"Tomorrow, Auntie. As long as it must be, it may 
as well be at once.” 

"Yes, it will be best.” 

"Now, Auntie, I will go and tell Uncle Winfield,” 
said Sherman. 

Aunt Sadie let him go, and rising resolutely, she 
went about preparations for his departure. After all it 
was not so very bad this parting, when once you had 
made up your mind to it, and Aunt Sadie had been for 
some time prepared for a possible separation. Other 
young men went out into the world, leaving the home 
nest often never to return to it. Her boy, at least, would 
come back to her, and be better for the journey. With- 
out doubt Winfield was right. A few years of travel, of 


356 


THE WATTERSONS. 


solitude and of worldly experience was most needful to 
the proper rounding out of his manly character. 
Strengthening her resolutions with such like reflections 
Aunt Sadie got through the day with only two or three 
irrepressible outbursts of weeping. 

''I am not surprised/’ said Mr. Watterson, when 
Sherman had informed him of his purpose. ‘‘IVe been 
expecting it from your late restlessness. Have you made 
any plans yet, my lad?” 

''I propose to visit the principal American cities and 
places of historic interest before going abroad.” 

^'That is a good idea. Go south, then east, through 
New England and Canada before sailing. I have a mis- 
sion for you in the south. You must visit my brother-in- 
law, Mr. Curtis, in Maryland, and then I want you to go 
to Virginia in General Hamilton’s behalf. He has an 
estate there which he abandoned after the war, as I have 
learned upon investigation. You must visit his relatives, 
and give me an idea of his Cousin Mainward’s character, 
so that I shall know how to act.” 

''I am going to Chicago first. Uncle. I want to see 
Dillingham — unless you wish me to avoid him?” 

‘'By no means,” said Mr. Watterson, quickly. “Meet 
Dick, my lad, and meet him as a friend. He loves you.” 

“I’m afraid. Uncle, that will be impossible. I cannot 
meet a man in a friendly spirit who has permitted himself 
to utter such tirades against you as appear almost daily 
in the metropolitan papers. If I meet Dick,” said the 
young man, flushing hotly, “I shall very forcibly express 
my opinion of him.” 

“In doing so my hot-headed boy you will be very 
foolish,” said Mr. Watterson, reprovingly. “You do not 
read Dick’s denunciations aright, my son. You permit 
your love for me to blind you. Look more closely and 
you will see that these tirades, as you call them, are really 
eulogies in disguise. The man under the guise of de- 
nouncing me is singing my praises from day to day. He 
declares that his sole reason for turning against me is that 
I am too honest, too upright, and he cites many instances 
to prove my unfitness for leader of a great political organ- 


IN WHICH OUR HERO TAKES HIS FLIGHT. 


357 


ization — because of my integrity of character. Why/’ 
added Mr. Watterson with rueful look, ''I cannot in mod- 
esty read Dick’s tirades any more. The man is, in my 
opinion, playing a deep game for a purpose of his own, 
but knowing Dick’s love for me I cannot bring myself 
to believe that his purpose is to supersede me.” 

'Ts it not possible. Uncle, that he may be uttering his 
true sentiments? That he wishes to depose you for the 
very reasons he cites?” 

'Tt is possible, of course,” said Mr. Watterson, in 
troubled tones. '‘However,” he added, straightening his 
broad shoulders involuntarily, "you need have no fear for 
me. If Dick is really in earnest he will meet with the 
biggest surprise of his life at the Convention. I believe in 
Dick — but I’ll keep my powder dry.” 

For another half hour they talked, arranging for 
future correspondence, and settling such matters as the 
young man’s money allowance and manner of payment. 

"I think it best for you to draw upon me as you need 
money,” said Mr. Watterson, after mentioning various 
sums which were either top small in his opinion or too 
I large in Sherman’s. "In my college days I managed very 
! easily on a thousand dollars a year, and lived in all things 
as befits a gentleman, but things have changed since then 
and you will, of course, adapt yourself to the prevailing 
standard. I can more easily allow you ten times the sum 
which my father in his day could afford to spend on me. 
Live like a gentleman, my son, wherever you go.” 

Sherman thanked his generous uncle, and then went 
with a heavy heart to his dear girl’s study. She was sit- 
ting in a pensive attitude beside the window, but rose on 
his entrance and stood awaiting him, smiling a little, 
tremulously. She looked quite pale, and from her anxious 
expression as she regarded him he knew that she had 
been thinking deeply, and that the thoughts had been most 
disquieting. He advanced quickly and bent down and 
kissed her hand. He asked no more now than had been 
his before, and for this Myrtle was deeply grateful. 

"Come and sit down. Myrtle,” said Sherman, softly, 
"I have something to tell you.” 


358 


THE WATTERSONS. 


He led her to a chair and, drawing up another, seated 
himself by her side. 

'‘I may as well tell you at once. Myrtle,'' said the 
young man, gravely, “I am going away for a year or two, 
going to travel and see the world. You know it is my 
uncle’s wish." 

She looked at him in deep astonishment. This was 
so different from what she had expected that it almost de- 
prived her of breath. Her cheeks became paler still, and 
her hand went to her heart to quiet its tumultuous 
beating. 

'T know, dear, that you do not want to marry yet," 
continued Sherman. ''You have said that you love me, 
and with that sweet assurance I am content to wait your 
will; but I cannot stay longer. It will be best for both of 
us to part for a while." 

Still Myrtle did not trust herself to speak. Her hand 
continued to press hard against her bosom. 

"You are devoted heart and soul to your Cause, but 
you will weary of it in time my love and then I shall come 
and claim you." 

"You are going to leave us, Sherman !" faltered Myrtle. 
"Leave me !" 

"Don't you want me to go, dear Myrtle?" cried Sher- 
man, taking her in his arms for her greater comfort and 
his own. 

"How can you leave me Sherman ?" said Myrtle 
reproachfully. "I thought that — after — last — night — " 

"What did you think sweet?" urged Sherman as she 
came to a pause with her face hidden against his shoulder. 

"I thought — that — ^you — would — never leave me !" 
said Myrtle beginning to cry. After all she was a weak 
little creature. "I thought you came this morning to — to 
— oh ! Sherman you cannot mean it?" 

"But I do mean it my own. Do I not know you? 
How often have I heard you say that you would not 
marry for years to come?" 

"But that was before — last — night," murmured 
Myrtle, smiling through her tears. 

"What a dear, strange, adorable little woman," cried / 


IN WHICH OUR HERO TAKES HIS FLIGHT. 359 

the lover nearly beside himself with contending emotions 
as he gazed into her love-lit eyes, which were regarding him 
so tenderly, so sweetly, so modestly and yet with a queenly 
pride and dignity that moved him to the soul. Oh, for a 
raging lion to strangle in her presence ! Oh, for an army 
of giants to dispute with him the favor of this precious girl ! 

''Don’t go away, Sherman,” said Myrtle softly. 

"I must. Myrtle ; I must go.” 

"Even when I ask you to stay, Sherman — darling?” 

Now, this was very hard on Sherman, you must allow, 
and rather designing on Myrtle’s part, who for so long had 
held him at arm’s-length. 

"Do you know what my staying means. Myrtle ? ” he 
asked, breathing hard and by sheer strength of will holding 
himself in his chair. 

"I — I believe so,” faltered Myrtle. 

"And would you run counter to your own stern preach- 
ings? Sacrifice your own pet theories? Would you. 
Myrtle?” 

"Would I what, Sherman?” she said demurely. "You 
have asked nothing yet — nothing worth answering.” 

"Would you marry me — at once? ” 

"If you really and truly wished it,” she smiled archly 
in conclusion. 

Sherman sat dumfounded. Far from expecting this 
abject surrender, he had come prepared to listen to plead- 
ings for mercy, soft appeals for patience, and here this dear, 
incomprehensible little woman was almost pleading for that 
which but a little while before he was suing for in vain ! He 
did not know that he had judged her aright — that up to the 
very moment of his coming she had been bitterly upbraid- 
ing herself for her precipitation in avowing her love, when 
she had determined not to marry for years to come. But 
so it was. 

She had firmly resolved to represent the matter to him 
in its true light; tell him how impossible it was to marry 
now ; but all her resolutions melted away with one glimpse 
of his eager face. This young man had held her in his 
arms, had kissed her lips, had conquered her absolutely and 
irrevocably. She belonged to him. He was the lord of her 


36 o 


THE WATTERSONS. 


heart, her love, her happiness, her king. What, argue with 
him — her lover and husband to be? Never! What was the 
Cause compared to her love? Nothing — less than nothing. 
So all her fine resolutions vanished like the snow before the 
sun, and she sat meekly down beside him, prepared to yield 
to him in everything. She sat now looking at him, all rosy 
with triumph, glorying in his surprise and her surrender, 
and not in the least doubting her victory. 

Sherman sprang up in the greatest agitation and took 
a turn or two through the room. Here was the very happi- 
ness which he had prayed for ofifered to him, yet he hesi- 
tated. Nay, there was no hesitation. His resolution was 
taken; he would rise superior to selfish gratification; he 
would put his happiness from him. It would be for the best. 
The course which he had mapped out appeared to him to be 
the right one, and he resolved not to swerve from it. In 
the conflict between her heart and her intellect Myrtle's 
heart had for the time gained the ascendancy, triumphing 
over the aspirations of her strong mind.; but in a few weeks, 
or at most months, when the cravings of her heart had in a 
measure been appeased, her powerful intellect would again 
assert itself and she would become unhappy. So Sherman 
believed, and he resolved not to take advantage of her 
womanly weakness. It was a struggle, however. A battle 
raged in his heart for some minutes — a battle between fierce 
desire and the right, but character triumphed over passion. 

‘^Do you remember four or five years ago. Myrtle, when 
you were going to college," said Sherman, sitting down 
again by her side, “how eager you were to go and how dis- 
tressed at the thought of leaving your father? You would 
have given over college — the dream of your life — out of 
love for your father, but he saved you from yourself at a 
heart-breaking sacrifice. Myrtle, I shall follow your father's 
example." 

“You cannot, my Sherman," cried Myrtle, fairly putting 
her arms around his neck, and smiling roguishly into his 
eyes. “How can you when you love me so — when I love you 
so?" 

It was again a desperate struggle to resist the coaxing 
lips so near his own, in fact, he could not resist them, but 


IN WHICH OUR HERO TAKES HIS FLIGHT. 361 

though he pressed those lips tenderly and clasped his dear 
girl to his breast with ardor, still he held to his resolve. 

'‘It is because I love you, Myrtle, that I do this. Do 
not look so reproachful, dear. Do you think it is an easy 
task for me to put aside the happiness I have waited for 
so long? To carry on the great work in which you are en- 
gaged requires entire devotion of time and attention. You 
are free now to devote yourself to it. Married, you would 
have to sacrifice the Cause to your husband, or your husband 
to the Cause. Either way you would be most unhappy. 
Another woman could continue blithely along with a slovenly 
eye on each, but not my little woman.’' 

"Oh, Sherman,” said Myrtle, sobbing, ‘T’m deeply dis- 
appointed in you.” 

"Em sorry, darling, that it should be so, but indeed, 
dear Myrtle, I would be unworthy of your love if I yielded 
now. Some day the Cause will be of secondary importance 
to you, and I am willing to await the event.” 

"I — am — so — dreadfully — disappointed — in — you,” was 
all the weeping girl would say. 

But in her secret heart she knew that he was right, 
and owned with pride and joy his superior strength of 
character. 

Oh, how weak she was ! How puny ! she who strove to 
lead her sex to heights unknown and unexplored ! She was 
a child ! A very infant ! All her life she had been surrounded 
by stronger spirits than her own. All her life she had been 
protected, guarded against her own rash acts. What in- 
conceivable blunders she would have committed but for 
their tender care ! First her father, then Richard, and now 
Sherman! Was it then true? Were all women so weak? 
All men so strong? She was a woman of intellect higher 
than most, but however high the aspiration of her mind, 
she had followed her heart at every crisis of her life. Sher- 
man took her in his arms and kissed her tears away. 

"I must go. Myrtle,” he said, and there were tears in his 
own eyes now. "There is no other way ; but though you are 
disappointed in me now, you do love me. Myrtle?” 

"So dearly, Sherman!” 

"And you will think of me- when I am gone?” 


362 


THE WATTERSONS. 


will, I will !" 

^^You will never love any one but me, will you, Myrtle?’’ 

''No, Sherman, no. I love you only,” she cried. "Oh, 
don’t go away, my own ! Don’t leave me.” 

Her arms were around his neck once more, and her 
beautiful eyes looking into his own shone with tears, but 
Sherman shook his head, and again declared that it must 
be so. He talked long and earnestly, and by dwelling upon 
the glories of her Cause and the happiness of a future re- 
union, he gradually won her to smiling once more. 

When Aunt Sadie came in along toward noon. Myrtle 
looked so radiantly happy, sitting by her lover’s side with 
her arms around his neck, that the good lady cried out, 
thinking the dear girl had persuaded her darling boy to 
forego his proposed flight. But Myrtle recalled to earth 
again by Aunt Sadie’s presence, threw herself weeping into 
the elder lady’s arms, and they had a good cry together, 
which somehow gave them greater strength and courage. 

Sherman saw but one of his many friends that day. 
General Hamilton, coming late in the evening, heard with 
deep regret the young man’s resolution, but he highly ap- 
plauded it. 

"Eve’y gentleman should travel, suh,” said the General. 
"Getting away from the women a while of itself will be of 
great benefit to you.” 

But what between his love for Aunt Sadie and his 
passion for Myrtle, the sorrow of the one and the woe of 
the other, poor Sherman was driven nearly distracted with 
contending emotions, and were it not for the haunting 
thought of Clara, it is more than likely that he would have 
thrown precaution to the winds and have stayed at home 
forever tied to the apron-strings of those loving women. 

Myrtle clung to him during those last few hours with 
the abandon of a child. She had long resisted him, and the 
thought now preyed upon her, filled her with the keenest 
self-reproach. She told herself that if she had been more 
loving, the dear one would not now be leaving her. It was 
all her fault. In her selfish absorption in her work, she had 
neglected the man who loved her, and, as if to make amends 
for that long neglect, she clung to him now with passionate 


IN WHICH OUR HERO TAKES HIS FLIGHT. 363 

tenderness. Sherman had really never known Myrtle be- 
fore. Beneath the calm, serene exterior which stern con- 
vention imposes she concealed a nature as passionate as his 
own. 

In place of the strong-minded young woman, sternly 
upholding her rights against the tyrant man, was now a 
humble, adoring, weak little creature, declaring that she 
could not live without him, her dearest, her darling, her 
own. The queenly young lady who had graciously permitted 
him to kiss her hand, the hem of her gown ; who had imperi- 
ously commanded his attendance or capriciously denied 
herself to him, had given place to a tender, loving, passionate 
girl, whose arms seemed by nature formed to lie snugly 
around his neck, whose eyes looked into his with meek sub- 
mission. 

''You will always love me, Sherman?’' she asked implor- 
ingly. "You will think of me when you are gone?” 

Sherman’s tender assurances comforted her and made 
her very happy. 

He spent the evening in his uncle’s study, where Myrtle 
and Aunt Sadie joined them, and where they remained until 
long past midnight. Aunt Sadie wept all night, and Myrtle 
came down in the morning with eyes all red and swollen, 
and though both tried to appear cheerful in the face of the 
impending separation, it was all in vain. The tears would 
come unbidden, and so the morning was very sad to all. 
It was in vain for Mr. Watterson to smile and declare that 
they ought rather to rejoice than repine; had Sherman been 
going to war these two foolish women could not have be- 
trayed greater grief and woe. 

In the very hour of parting, as they stood together in 
the parlor. General Hamilton was announced, and presently 
the old warrior came marching in, with Daniel at his heels. 
The young negro wore a mighty grin, and the whites of his 
eyes when he turned his glance upon Sherman rolled alarm- 
ingly. 

"Boy,” said the General, when greetings had been ex- 
changed. "Have you provided yo’self with a su’vant, suh?” 

"A servant. General?” 


364 


THE WATTERSONS. 


“Yes, suh — a body su’vant. I see, suh, that you have 
not/’ 

“No, General, IVe never felt the need of a servant,” 
Sherman replied, laughing. “I guess I can take care of 
myself now as always.” 

“Wrong, suh. Eve’y gentleman should have a pu’sonal 
attendant, suh, and especially when starting on his travels 
should he provide himself with a faithful nigra, suh. What, 
suh ! Are you a nobody to sta’t off in this haphazard man- 
nah? Foh shame, suh. Who is to run yo’ erants? black yo’ 
boots? brush yo’ clothes? and attend to all the thousand 
and one troublesome details that arise from day to day as yo’ 
jo’ney onward? Yo’self? Faugh! ’Tis not to be thought 
of. No gentleman, suh, should bu’den his mind with such 
mattahs, nor stoop to pufawm menial offices. Daniel, you 
black rascal,” concluded the General, flourishing his cane. 
“Stand fo’th !” 

Daniel advanced a step, glaring in mingled wonder and 
alarm at his master. 

“Here, boy,” continued the old warrior placidly. “I 
make you a present of him.” 

“A — a — present!” gasped Sherman. 

Myrtle clapped her hands delightedly, and Aunt Sadie 
began to crow, despite her aching heart. Mr. Watterson 
shook with silent laughter. The General beamed upon them 
all and delightedly tugged at his imperial. 

“Yes, suh,” he said. “Daniel shall attend upon you. 
He has been trained in all the duties of a body suVant — 
trained, suh, by his fatha’, who fo’ sixty yeahs has attended 
upon me pu’sonally. A caning now and then until he shall 
have arrived at yeahs of discretion is all he will requiah. 
Daniel, this young gentleman is now yo’ mastah.” 

“Yes, sah,” gasped Daniel. 

“You belong to him— are his pu’sonal propu’ty. Un- 
dahstand ?” 

“Yes, Massa Dave. Ah undahstand, sah,” stammered 
Daniel. 

“Su’ve him faithfully in all things, and he will prove 
a kind mastah to you.” 


IN WHICH OUR HERO TAKES HIS FLIGHT. 365 

“Hope to die, Massa Dave !” cried Daniel, rolling his 
eyes. “Hope to die this yere minute, sah, if I — ” 

“That will do,’' rasped out the General, curtly. “Go 
about yo’ duties at once.” 

“But look here. General,” protested Sherman, “this will 
never do, you know.” 

“What, suh?” cried the General, glaring. “What will 
never do, boy?” 

“Sherman doesn’t want to carry the lad off on such 
short notice,” interposed Mr. Watterson, with a warning 
glance at Sherman. 

“Bah! nonsense, suh,” cried the General. “Mam Sue 
is wild with joy, and Benjy when he lu’ned my pu’pose began 
to capah like a colt. They have given Daniel tha’h blessing 
and he is ready to sta’ht at once. No mo’ wo’ds, suh; the 
boy is yo’s. Yo’ hand!” 

He grasped the young man’s hand and shook it warmly. 

“Good-bye, boy,” he said, softly. “I wish you a happy 
jo’ney, suh.” 

With a last warm hand pressure, they parted; the 
General shouldered his cane and marched away, Sherman 
following his tallj elegant figure with wet eyes. 

“What shall I do. Uncle?” queried Sherman, with a 
glance at Daniel, who stood ready at the door with a grip 
in each hand and a grin that spread to his ears. 

“Do? Why, take him along, to be sure. The General 
is quite right. The boy’s services will come in handy, you’ll 
find. If he doesn’t strive to please,” concluded the big man, 
in a terrible voice, “feed him to the lions.” 

“Oh, Marse Majah,” murmured Daniel, with bulging 

eyes. 

“I think he’s nice,” cried Myrtle, an opinion in which 
Aunt Sadi^coincided. 

“So be it,” said Sherman, “and now, my dear, dear Aunt 
Sadie. Myrtle, my own precious darling. It is farewell. 
Uncle. Until we meet again.” 

He held wide his arms and they flung themselves upon 

him. 

“Be good, darling,” murmured Aunt Sadie, “and return 
to us pure in heart as you go.” 


366 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘'Be true, my own,’’ whispered Myrtle, sobbing on his 
breast. 

“Guard my treasure. Auntie,” he replied, placing her in 
Aunt Sadie’s arms. “So long. Uncle.” 

He was gone. They saw him cross the lawn with 
Daniel at his heels, caught the last wave of his hand, and 
once more the two loving women sank into each other’s 
arms weeping until they could weep no more. 

And so Sherman left his home and his happiness behind 
him and went out into the world, kicking himself figuratively 
speaking, for an ass, but with the proud consciousness at 
bottom that the course he had taken was the only right and 
manly one. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


CONCERNS ITSELF CHIEFLY WITH MYRTLE. 

Aunt Sadie^s friends looked in vain for her for some 
days after her boy’s departure. She remained strictly at 
home, going about in corners, weeping her poor eyes and 
nose red. This continued until Sherman’s first letter ar- 
rived. It was such a loving letter; it breathed such tender- 
ness for her, and undying devotion, that Aunt Sadie forgot 
her grief and started out upon her rounds, carrying the 
precious epistle in her bosom. She brought it forth where- 
ever she went to show it to her friends and to read certain 
passages aloud, especially those bearing upon his deep love 
for her. She laughed with great glee at their exclamations 
of wonder over a boy so good and pure and loving. 

There was a little note enclosed in the letter, for Myrtle, 
into which, though it lay open to her eyes. Aunt Sadie 
would not have peeped for worlds. She carried it to Myrtle 
with an air so mysterious and important that she quite 
frightened that young lady. And in many of her boy’s sub- 
sequent letters there was a little note enclosed, which Aunt 
Sadie conveyed to Myrtle with great secrecy and delight. 

''A little note from my boy, my love,” she would say, 
looking away carefully, so as not to embarrass the dear 
child. 

'Thank you. Auntie,” Myrtle would reply, blushing 
with delight. 

There was not much in these little notes to be sure. 'T 
love you. Myrtle,” or 'T love my Myrtle, dearly,” or words 
to that effect, but Myrtle kissed them and cried over them, 
no doubt, and treasured them every one; and sometimes 
answered them with notes as brief but words of similar 
import. Aunt Sadie, who deeply loved a romance insisted 
on making a great secret of it all. She would come to 
Myrtle as unconcernedly as possible, and, placing her letter 
on the girl’s desk, she would go tip-toeing out again, and 


368 


THE WATTERSONS. 


half an hour later, return to find Myrtle’s little note en- 
closed. She would then mail it with her own hands, not 
trusting it, mind you, to the mail-bag into which the ordi- 
nary letters were placed for the carrier, but conveying it in 
person to the postoffice in order to speed its safe departure. 

“For my boy,” she would say if it was Mr. Shuttle- 
worth, the postmaster, who was an old family friend. Or 
“Will you please see that this letter goes out by the first 
train?” if in Mr. Shuttleworth’s absence, she had to treat 
with the young man at the window. 

He was so terribly haughty, that young man, that Aunt 
Sadie became dreadfully afraid of him. Her tone sank to a 
tone of timid supplication in preferring her request. And 
the impatient way in which the ill-conditioned cub snatched 
the precious missive from her hand and hurled it into the 
box with the other letters, quite took her breath away. She 
was greatly troubled by this young man’s surly discourtesy, 
and she cast about in her mind for a means of conciliating 
so important a medium between herself and boy. She ended 
by inviting him with Mr. Shuttleworth to a Sunday dinner, 
and was so kind to him when he came, and so attentive and 
courteous, that she quite won his heart, and when next she 
approached his window with a letter, he not only 
handled it more tenderly, but stamped it before 
her very eyes, and placed it with a bundle of other 
Chicago-bound letters in a great bag. Days and weeks 
passed, but every single day of every week brought Aunt 
Sadie a letter. Sometimes it was a long letter, full of 
humorous descriptions of men and things, sometimes it was 
only a little note bearing a thousand kisses, but never a 
day passed without a word from her adoring boy. She 
did not write so frequently, not having the time, but once 
a week at least she wrote to her boy and so all things con- 
sidered, she was very happy. 

Myrtle, however, was very sad and lonely. She missed 
her dear lover’s bright face and the thousand little endear- 
ing attentions with which he had surrounded her. She 
even lost much interest in her work, and all her writings 
for weeks afterwards bore unmistakable evidence of her 
sentimental mood of mind. Her readers must have been 


CONCERNS ITSELF CHIEFLY WITH MYRTLE. 369 

very greatly astonished at the melancholy tinge imparted 
to her essays about this time. The poor girl indeed would 
much rather have composed sentimental ditties than the 
stuff which she was expected to turn out from week to 
week. 

She had little to say in those days about woman’s 
status, less about her rights, and nothing at all about the 
longed-for ballot. She insisted tearfully that woman was 
necessary to man and man to woman, whereas at an earlier 
period her attitude had given rise to more than a suspicion 
that in the opinion of the fair essayist the world could get 
along very well without the sterner sex. To be sure this 
opinion had been considerably modified as time passed, and 
she grew deeper and deeper in love with her dear Sherman, 
but in her softest moods she had never dreamed of making 
such an acknowledgment as the above. 

She expatiated on woman’s beautiful devotion to man, 
citing many examples in point, not to prove, mind you, that 
women were, therefore, entitled to the ballot, but merely 
to uphold a contention that she was a not unworthy partner 
of the lordly being who condescended to consort with her. 
She was very humble indeed, and disposed to think that 
mere man had conducted mundane affairs very tolerably, 
considering all things. She even seemed to think that it 
would not at all be a bad thing to permit him to hold the 
reins a little while longer. She dwelt, too, on the wife’s 
devotion to her husband and, I am afraid, shocked her 
stronger-minded sisters not a little by emphatically declar- 
ing that the wife should in all practical matters defer to her 
husband as a being not only more experienced, but naturally 
wiser than she. Nay, she went even further, and to the 
horror of her stronger-minded associates above mentioned, 
she absolutely declared the wife to be the weaker vessel, 
dependent upon her husband not only for material support, 
but for all the happiness of life. It was, in a word, an abject 
surrender. 

She blushes now a good deal and places her hands over 
her ears, shaking her head with great vehemence when her 
mischievous husband brings forth these articles (which he 
has carefully preserved) and begins in a solemn voice to 


370 


THE WATTERSONS. 


read to her, her own expressed opinions of a wife’s duties 
to her husband and his natural superiority. 

But this weakness did not last long. She came around 
presently, and her effusions became more powerful than 
ever. Requests for contributions began to pour in from 
leading periodicals, invitations to lecture before women’s 
clubs in various parts of the country came. She accepted 
all of the first, and as many of the last as was consistent 
with her literary labors. She gained fame as a lecturer as 
well as a writer. Her name began to figure in the news- 
papers as a personage, her utterances gave grave editorial 
writers food for solemn comment. She liked this semi-public 
life, liked to read criticisms of her writings and was not at 
all displeased with the savage attacks made upon her Cause. 
They at least served to bring the matter before the public, 
the great common people, and that was above all things what 
she desired. It hurt her at first to be called erratic, flighty, 
to be classed with the ''short-haired female cranks trotting 
over the globe like unyoked sheep,” as one editor character- 
ized that noble band of women working for the Cause. 
These things wounded her grievously, but reflecting that 
these utterances were purely inspired by bigotry or ignor- 
ance, she smiled and read the article through to the end with- 
out more than a furtive tear or two. 

"Don’t mind, my dear,” her father said, "these tirades 
show that the Cause is gaining headway. The thing that 
awakens bitter animosity is half won. It is only a matter of 
time when victory will be yours. This kind of comment 
shows that my child is really becoming a power.” 

Such words from her father filled her with rapture, 
and she returned to her work with renewed hope and cour- 
age. She missed her dear lover sorely, but certainly since 
his departure she had developed a power greater than she 
had ever before declared. Her effusions were more brilliant, 
stronger and more powerful in argument and in execution. 
This was, no doubt, in part due to the fact that she could 
now concentrate all her intellectual faculties on her work, 
and in part because she applied herself more earnestly in 
order to still her womanly grief and drown her loneliness. 
Whatever the cause, she was in every way improved, of 


CONCERNS ITSELF CHIEFLY WITH MYRTLE. 37I 

which fact she was perhaps herself unconscious until it 
was brought home to her in an unmistakable manner. 

The foremost of American magazines, an eastern 
periodical of international renown, in arranging a sympo- 
sium on a matter of world-wide moment, urgently requested 
a contribution from her on the question under discussion. 
The list of names submitted amazed her. She was asked to 
join in open debate with stars of the first magnitude, with 
men and women, the acknowledged leaders of thought. 
She carried the letter to her father and showed it to him 
with tears of joy in her eyes, which were reflected in his 
own as he read the glorious missive which, in effect, de- 
clared his daughter the equal of any of these earnest lead- 
ers. It was not a question bearing directly upon Woman’s 
Suffrage, but it had to do with politics, and Myrtle was a 
young woman who could be trusted to bring it to bear upon 
her dearly loved Cause. She accepted the offer thankfully, 
and went to work with a will. Her father was of much 
assistance to her in preparing her paper. His mind was 
a perfect storehouse of political lore; she had but to go to 
him to clear up any doubtful point in history or in the mat- 
ter of historical precedent. He went over the paper care- 
fully when it was completed, but could find no flaw either 
in its reasoning or execution. The publication of that 
article along with the others attracted widespread interest 
and established Myrtle’s fame as the supreme exponent in 
that peculiar field to which she had dedicated her powers. 

Mr. Watterson was very proud of his daughter, but 
still he could not bring himself to enter into serious dis- 
cussion with her. She was to him first a sweet, adorable 
child, and, second, a woman too pure and sacred to his 
mind to engage in matters so gross. Myrtle understood 
her father too well now to grieve over what in earlier days 
she had regarded as a lack of confidence in her. She un- 
derstood him now, and when she desired information on 
any point in politics or political history she wrote out her 
questions on paper with her reasons for asking them, and 
placed the matter upon his desk, and in a day or two he 
would hand her a fat package containing the answer with 
everything bearing upon the matter from every possible 


372 


THE WATTERSONS. 


point of view. She found that this gave him great pleasure, 
and she forthwith set him tasks without number, and so 
discussing grave questions in writing, and in ordinary con- 
versation employing soft words of love and terms of en- 
dearment these two loving hearts continued happily along. 

With all her duties as writer and lecturer. Myrtle 
never neglected her home club, although she had long ago 
given over the idea of forming a gigantic Women’s Union. 
The thing was impossible she found. She could not but 
see that her girl friends attended the meetings for com- 
panionship sake, rather than to listen to serious discussion. 
She was herself too true a woman to find fault with them 
for that which was so natural to their blooming years. She 
found herself yielding more and more to the genial atmos- 
phere of camaraderie wrought by social intercourse, and 
it was often with a strong feeling of reluctance that she 
brought the gavel down, interrupting the merry chatter 
around her, and bringing woe into eyes a moment be- 
fore bright with animation and warm with feeling of good 
fellowship. 

She was greatly troubled about Clara and Rosie. Clara 
came very seldom to the club in these days, although she 
had been its most enthusiastic member in the beginning. 
She never visited Myrtle now, and when they met by chance 
her greeting was very cold. Myrtle knew not the cause of 
this alteration in her erstwhile warm and open-hearted 
friend. All her efforts towards a better understtoding were 
repulsed by Clara. So Myrtle, finding her repeated endeav- 
ors in vain, tossed her head proudly and passed Clara by 
with a glance as haughty as her own. Clara's coldness 
troubled her, but Rosie’s seclusion worried her more. She 
knew no cause of offense against Clara, but she doubted 
her innocence of wronging little Rosie. Rosie never came to 
the meetings now at all. She had quit Murly’s, and she 
remained steadfastly at home, although she was not at all 
ill, she declared. Myrtle had called at the little white cot- 
tage several times, and Rosie had on each occasion received 
her in the darkened bed chamber. They had embraced with 
their usual warm affection, but Rosie somehow was dif- 
ferent; she was more constrained in her bearing towards 


CONCERNS ITSELF CHIEFLY WITH MYRTLE. 373 

her friend. Myrtle thought she knew the cause of Rosie’s 
pale cheeks and swollen eyes. Elmer had altogether ceased 
his attentions to Rosie, and he had become most attentive 
to her. He called at the old ivy-grown mansion every evening 
in the week. He was openly devoted to Myrtle. Aunt Sadie 
noticed it, and she felt properly indignant on account of 
her boy. Mr. Watterson noticed it and he was troubled. 
He had never liked Elmer. The boy’s saucy pertness grated 
on this grave, sensitive man, and the grace and elegance of 
the young man was more than offset by his notorious de- 
pravity which could not but make him abhorrent to a mind 
so pure as Mr. Watterson’s. To see this young reprobate 
in familiar intercourse with his daughter pained him ex- 
ceedingly. Urged on by Aunt Sadie he gently broached the 
subject to Myrtle one morning. 

'T cannot help it. Papa,” said Myrtle, blushing. /'He 
will come, though goodness knows, I do not encourage 
him.” 

"But you can tell him you are engaged to my boy,” 
said Aunt Sadie, with heat. "You are not true to Sherman 
when you permit the attentions of another in' his absence.” 

"How can you say so. Auntie,” cried Myrtle, indig- 
nantly. "You know how I desired our engagement made 
public, from the beginning, but Sherman would not per- 
mit it, saying in his dear, silly way that he left me free 
until his return.” 

"But Elmer must be told.” 

"Then do you tell him for me. Auntie. But no ; say noth- 
ing. Perhaps I can bring him back to little Rosie. That 
is what I am trying to do, Auntie, and you should help me 
instead of scolding me.” 

So the matter rested. Elmer was permitted to call, 
but Myrtle rarely saw him alone. Either Aunt Sadie was 
in the room with them, or her father, and this by her con- 
trivance, as the young man could not fail to see. But he 
was not easily discouraged, and indeed saw nothing dis- 
couraging in this. It must not be supposed that Elmer’s 
attentions were wholly displeasing to Myrtle. On the con- 
trary, she was pleased, as any other young woman would 
have been pleased at the gallant young man’s courtesies. 


374 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Nor did she consider her acceptance of them at all inconsist- 
ent with her faith to Sherman. In her letters to her lover 
she told him of her social doings, and teased him a great 
deal about a certain young man whom she would not name, 
and in reply Sherman delivered himself of very terrible 
threats against the young man should he ever meet with 
him, but his faith in his sweetheart was clearly as boundless 
as his love. Elmer certainly was very amusing. She could 
not help laughing at the young fellow’s droll discourse. 
She enjoyed his society very much, and were it not for the 
preying thought of poor little Rosie pining at home, she 
would have been as happy as a young woman well can be 
whose true love is far from her side. Elmer’s attentions 
were all the more welcome because young fellows rather 
avoided Myrtle, fearful, perhaps, of coming off haltingly 
in ordinary converse with a creature so intellectual. These 
fears were ungrounded. However grave in her study 
Myrtle was as gay and loving and girlish outside of it as 
any of her young companions, though not as thoughtless 
perhaps or as much given to inane chatter. She could not 
help a mocking smile when some empty-headed ass of the 
male persuasion assumed airs of superiority towards herself 
and her sisters, but she would not willingly have wounded 
the vanity of even such a creature. 

Elmer, without doubt, was improved in every way. 
He was as industrious now and sober as he had formerly 
been idle and depraved ; no more staying out at nights until 
the wee small hours of the morning. No more drinking 
and carousing with boon companions ; the under world 
of the town knew him no more. All this change was 
wrought through Myrtle’s growing influence over him. She 
was glad of Elmer’s reform, glad for his sake and for 
Rosie’s sake. She did as much as any young woman could 
do to encourage him in his promising course. She did not 
dream, however, that the alteration in him was due solely to 
her. She was a modest young woman ; her mirror told her 
that she was not an extraordinarily beautiful one ; she could 
not fancy any other young man in love with her save Sher- 
man, her dear lover, who had loved her since her early girl- 
hood. Least of all did she believe that Elmer entertained 


CONCERNS ITSELF CHIEFLY WITH MYRTLE. 


375 


a passion for her. It was only a passing fancy with him. 
She was so dififerent in character from him; he was so in- 
different to her that she could not believe in a lasting love 
on his part. 

But Elmer was, in fact, deeply and enduringly in love 
with Myrtle. She was just the woman to attract and hold 
a man of his weak and vacillating character, after mere 
beauty had palled upon him. Her purity filled him with 
the greatest reverence and awe; her little dainty graces 
charmed him, her strong personality appealed powerfully 
to him; her intellect, her gravity, her sweet womanliness, 
all won his admiration, because these were qualities which 
he eminently lacked. He was not intellectual, nor grave, 
nor manly; he was a nonentity. She was a paragon, and 
he set himself earnestly to win her. He did not dream 
that his past depravity had lowered him in her eyes ; having 
learned from experience that a reputation such as he had 
acquired rather increased his attractions in the eyes of good 
women. 

He was received everywhere. The most prudent of 
mamas entrusted their daughters to him. They tapped him 
on the arm and called him a naughty fellow. Papas laughed 
and clapped him proudly on the shoulder. ‘'You wild dog 
they said, chuckling. Daughters peeped at him shyly and 
giggled when he approached them. He was a general 
favorite, and this he was inclined to think was not in spite 
of, but because of his depravity. But Myrtle was somehow 
different from the others. She did not giggle nor withdraw 
invitingly when he approached her. She did not blush when 
he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. She knew the value 
of such whisperings, and did not seek for a hidden meaning 
in the young man’s words. She received him with calm 
dignity and a composure that awed him; her pure glance 
seemed to go clear through him ; he felt humbled in her 
presence — chastened; his assurance fled. He talked gayly 
and drolly as usual, but his talk was not the same as that 
which he employed with other girls. He saw her lips curl 
at his insinuations and he ceased complimenting her. In 
his intercourse with other young women, and women of 
good repute, he allowed himself a certain license, saying 


376 


THE WATTERSONS. 


things and making droll allusions which called up blushes 
and spasmodic gigglings. It was only Elmer — wild, un- 
tamable — Elmer, of whom such things were to be expected, 
and so he said what he pleased to them, but with Myrtle 
he never permitted himself the slightest liberty. He was 
respectful in conversation and reverential in manner. Her 
very presence exacted this tribute. That was why he loved 
her. He gloried in her superiority and exulted secretly in 
the ultimate possession of a treasure so priceless. For he 
did not doubt his ultimate success. He had feared Sher- 
man, but he believed firmly that that young man’s precipi- 
tate departure was owing to his rejected suit. And in 
whose favor had she rejected him if not in his? No other 
young man courted her. She was left to him by a kind 
of tacit understanding. He was rich, handsome, of good 
standing, he was not a bad fellow; he had always been 
eminently successful with women, so he not unnaturally 
felt that his chances of winning Myrtle were very bright 
and constantly growing brighter. She smiled upon him, 
laughed at his drolleries, accepted his attentions and seemed 
very happy in his company ; all of which encouraged in him 
dreams of future bliss. 

One thing troubled him, however. She talked of him 
and Rosie as if they belonged to each other. 

'‘Rosie is very unhappy,” she persisted in saying. 

"How can I help it. Myrtle?” he would say reproach- 
fully, "she is nothing to me; she never was.” 

Myrtle could not believe this. He had courted Rosie 
for long, and she insisted that he had no right now to with- 
draw, having won the young girl’s affections. She was 
sure that Rosie loved him and she did everything in her 
power to bring the two once more together. 

"Rosie is very unhappy,” she would say, accusingly. 
"Why don’t you go to see her?” 

It was in vain for him to protest that he could not 
help Rosie’s unhappiness ; that he cared nothing about it, 
and that Rosie was nothing to him. She persisted in saying 
the same things over and over again. She repeated it all 
one evening when he had called as usual to see her, and for 
a wonder found her alone. Mr. Watterson was down town 


CONCERNS ITSELF CHIEFLY WITH MYRTLE. 377 

and Aunt Sadie had been called out half an hour before his 
arrival by one of her friends. 

''It is unkind of you, Myrtle, to talk to me of Rosie, as 
if she were anything to me,’’ he said. 

"But why is she so unhappy? You should not have 
encouraged her, sir, if you mean to desert her now. Have 
you quarreled?” 

"No; am I the only man that has called on her? I 
know a dozen young fellows who would willingly go with 
her if she would let them. I went to see her — yes; and I 
took her about a good deal, but I have the right to cease 
my attentions when I choose, as she has the right to disown 
them.” 

Myrtle looked very thoughtful at this, and Elmer sat 
regarding her with deep anxiety and with glances of pas- 
sionate devotion. It was his first real love and it was very 
deep. She looked so pure and sweet and womanly, sitting 
there in her modest grey gown, with her pale, thin, sweet 
face framed in its glossy auburn hair, that he with diffi- 
culty restrained a desire to throw himself at her feet and 
pour out his passion then and there. It was the strangest 
thing to him that he should love this quiet, pensive girl. 
The feeling which she inspired in him was widely different 
from that which other women of greater physical beauty had 
aroused. He wanted to kneel to her, to kiss her hands, the 
hem of her gown ; her mere presence chastened him, made a 
better man of him. 

"Why should you think that Rosie’s seclusion is owing 
to me?” he asked, slowly; "don’t you notice that it dates 
exactly from the time of Sherman’s departure? They were 
very close friends.” 

Myrtle looked at him in great indignation. It was 
unpardonable of him to suppose that her dear Sherman could 
love any one but herself. 

"No, no,” she said, frowning, "Sherman is her friend 
as he is the friend of everybody who knows him. That is 
all. You called on her — ” 

"Well, I’m not calling on her now,” said Elmer, im- 
patiently. 


378 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''I wish you were with all my heart/' said Myrtle, 
frankly. 

“Now, Myrtle, that was unkind." 

“So it was, Elmer, and Em sorry; but I am so unhappy 
on Rosie's account." 

“I may be obliged to go away very shortly," said 
Elmer, waving the distasteful subject from him. “Daddy 
has an important plan mapped out which will require much 
traveling about. He cannot go himself, and he must have a 
personal representative. I have been thinking of under- 
taking it. I shall possibly visit Chicago, New York and 
London. You would not think that our business connections 
extend to London now?" 

“I am not surprised at anything when Mr. Marblemore 
is concerned," Myrtle replied. 

“I shall probably remain away several months," said 
Elmer; “will you miss me. Myrtle?" 

“Surely, Elmer. You have been very kind to me." 

“Kind? It is you who are kind in permitting me to 
be near you," said Elmer, trying to get possession of her 
hand, but she put it behind her, shaking her head smilingly. 

“I am a much better man for knowing you, Myrtle. I 
am not what I used to be, and I owe it all to you." 

“Nonsense, Elmer," said Myrtle, “I should be sorry 
to think that any change for the better in you was owing 
to any other cause than your own inate manliness of char- 
acter. Come, Elmer," she continued, holding up her hand 
as he was about to interrupt her, and smiling with that 
blending of mischief and scorn which he had come to dread, 
“let us be sensible and talk like sensible people. You are 
constantly insisting upon your goodness. Are you then so 
very much better than other men, or are you merely prid- 
ing yourself as being what in pure shame you ought to be ? 
You seem to believe that you deserve great credit for be- 
ing what you ought to be — a Man. Now, that is Absurd, 
Elmer. You would merit the utmost scorn and contempt 
if you were other than you claim to be ; but being that you 
deserve no more credit than another." 

Such downright bluntness was not usual with Myrtle, 
but the man wearied her with his constant self-laudation ; 


CONCERNS ITSELF CHIEFLY WITH MYRTLE. 379 

and she was moreover exceedingly angry with him for his 
insinuations respecting Sherman and Rosie, and not above 
taking revenge with her sharp tongue. Ah ! she knew a 
man, her own strong and manly lover who, with the purity 
of an angel, was as modest as man may be. 

Elmer looked hurt at this unmerited rebuke. He did 
indeed take great credit to himself for what he was pleased 
to call his reform, and he could not understand her manifest 
indifference to it. He strode through the room a time or 
two. Myrtle following his movements with mocking eyes. 

''You are hard on me. Myrtle,'' he said, appealingly. 

"No, I am not. I hope not at least. Who am I to be 
hard on anybody? What I said applies equally to me." 

"Well, I shall endeavor to win your good opinion. 
Myrtle," said Elmer, taking up his hat, "good-bye." 

His gentle tone quite shamed Myrtle. In her penitence 
of spirit she smiled more kindly upon him than her wont. 

"Good night, Elmer," she said, kindly. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


IN WHICH ROSIE PLEADS AND ELMER PROMISES. 

He thought of that smile and of her words when in the 
street. He thought of little Rosie and vaguely wondered 
how that matter would end. His passion for her had cooled. 
A few short weeks of furtive pleasure and satiety set in, 
making the object of his desire hateful in his eyes. He 
broke off all intimacy with her, hoping thus to end the mat- 
ter, believing that she would soon forget him and learn to 
smile on some other of her numerous admirers — but too 
late ! The evil was already done. Some four weeks after 
his desertion, when he had fondly fancied the incident 
closed forever, there came a frantic letter, an eloquent, tear- 
ful, piteous little appeal which filled him with surprise and 
consternation. He answered the note in person, calling in 
the darkness of the night, when Rosie, throwing herself 
into his arms, implored him with fearful sighs and tears to 
do her justice, to marry her and save her from open shame 
and dishonor. She reminded him of his promise, and over 
and over again begged him to do justice to her. She was 
about to become a mother, and terrified at the coming dis- 
closure, she clung to him in the greatest agony, pleading, im- 
ploring, beseeching, weeping. 

He was very tender. He renewed his vows and went 
away, leaving her very happy in spite of her grief and 
shame. He did not again visit Rosie, although letter after 
letter came to him, tearful, piteous little scrawls, in which 
the poor girl pleaded earnestly with her faithless lover. He 
knew that she had quit Murly’s, and knew that she never 
left her home now. She told him of her loneliness and 
shame, of her mother’s cruelty and how hard it was to con- 
ceal her condition from her. Mrs. Rosewood had discharged 
her servant, saying, sarcastically, that if Rosie preferred 
staying at home to working in Murly’s she should at least 
earn her living. If she did not like it she could go to her 


IN WHICH ROSIE PLEADS AND ELMER PROMISES. 381 

Myrtle, her General, her Mam Sue, her Elmer. She had 
no inkling of Rosie’s condition, believing that Elmer had 
merely grown weary of her baby face. She taunted her 
daughter upon losing him, and cursed her for an idiot in 
permitting him to escape, but she did not suspect Rosie of 
wrongdoing. When she did, Rosie did not know what 
would happen, but something terrible, surely. 

All of which Rosie told Elmer in her pitiful little let- 
ters. He felt very sorry for her, and deeply regretted the 
wrong done her, and cursed himself with all the bitterness 
of a weak nature, but never thought of righting the wrong 
in the only way in which it could be righted. He answered 
her letter, offering to find a place of concealment for her 
until her trouble was over, offering to, spend any amount of 
money to make it easy to bear. To marry her was out of 
his power. He did not say so in so many words, being far 
too weak and cowardly for that, but he spoke vaguely of 
obligations to his father, and the hopes his father entertained 
for him in another direction, and so on. To all of which 
Rosie paid no heed, but continued her pleadings from day to 
day with a perseverance and an eloquence that astonished 
him. She was not a very bright girl, nor strong-minded to 
any noticeable extent, but having gotten that one idea of 
marriage into her little head, she clung to it with a tenacity 
that nothing on earth could shake. She had always been a 
very timid girl, and she was more timid now and retiring 
than ever. She would not go away from Clarenceburg, 
save with him, but if he would marry her she would will- 
ingly accompany him anywhere. 

He thought of all this that evening as he walked along 
and wondered, sore at heart, why he had not at once turned 
to Myrtle that pure, sweet woman whose eyes had charmed 
him from the first, whose voice and presence soothed the 
spirit of unrest within him as nothing else could do. He 
never felt those base desires with Myrtle which pretty, inno- 
cent little Rosie and other women had inspired in him. She 
had attracted him from the first, but he had permitted 
Rosie’s soft entrancing beauty to lure him aside. Her rosy 
prettiness had awakened desire in him ; her shy modesty 
and innocence had only served to kindle that desire; her 


382 


THE WATTERSONS. 


resistance but fanned it to a blaze of passion which her 
final surrender had burned to ashes cold and grey. 

He had wished her no harm. From the very beginning 
he had planned nothing more than a few weeks of mutual 
pleasure which would end in their parting in mutual satis- 
faction. They would go their diflferent ways. Rosie would 
marry some honest mechanic, and he would marry Myrtle 
— they would meet in future years to smile at their youth- 
ful folly. The thing was happening every day. Women 
were no better than men ; they were made of the same clay, 
born with the same passions, the same desires, the same evil 
impulses. Most women had known men other than their 
husbands, and they were none the worse for their youthful 
indiscretions. Their husbands, happy in their ignorance, 
smiled fondly at the thought of their own youthful escapades 
and the world wagged on in the same old way. Thus this 
young man reasoned. 

Poor little Rosie! Of course he could not marry her. 
His wife must be a pure woman, unapproachable to all save 
him, modest, gentle and dignified as became the wife of a 
future leading citizen. What though he in his time had 
steeped himself to the ears in vice? That was all past now, 
and he was none the worse. He was a man, and men were 
governed by different standards than woman. He was not 
good, his wife must be all the better ; he was weak, she must 
be all the stronger. She must be chaste and constant, yield- 
ing to him only, and in him find all her joys, her pleasures, 
her raptures, her happiness — her world ! Rosie was not 
pure, but defiled. What though her impurity was owing 
to him? She had yielded to man, and she was unworthy 
to become his wife. Nevertheless — poor little Rosie ! 

In this musing state he had thoughtlessly approached 
the little white cottage in which Rosie dwelt, and which for 
weeks past he had constantly avoided. He quickened his 
pace, casting a furtive glance in its direction — and started 
back, confronted by Rosie. 

'Tt is me, Elmer — your wife,’’ said Rosie, timidly ap- 
proaching him. ‘T — I was waiting for you. I have been 
waiting for many days in the hope of seeing you. Please, 


IN WHICH ROSIE PLEADS AND ELMER PROMISES. 383 

dear Elmer, stay one moment and let me tell you about — 
you — know what 

Elmer frowned and cast a quick glance around. They 
were unobserved; the street was quite deserted, but from 
the distance came the sound of approaching footsteps. 

“Come in here, Rosie,'’ he said, and placing his arm 
around the trembling little figure, he led her across the 
lawn, drawing her close behind the verandah. “Now, what 
is it?” he demanded harshly. 

“Oh, Elmer, please don't speak so!” implored Rosie, 
piteously, “not to me, Elmer!” 

“Tell me what you want of me?” said Elmer, in gentler 
tones. 

“You know, Elmer. Oh dear, dear Elmer, you know 
it well. We must marry, Elmer, a real, true marriage. We 
must ! I shall die of shame if you don't marry me now ! 
Think, Elmer, what it means to me ! How can I face the 
good General, Aunt Sadie, Myrtle, my friends, if I am not 
married? Everyone will despise me — be ashamed of me. 
They'll say I'm bad. Oh, why did I believe you? Why, 
did I trust you ? Oh, I knew it wasn't a real, true marriage, 
but I trusted you because I loved you. You promised me 
faithfully — you did, Elmer ! Oh how faithfully ! Oh, why 
did you follow me? Why didn't you leave me alone?” 

“I wish to God I had,” he replied weakly, “but I didn't 
mean to get you into trouble. I never once thought it would 
end like this, so help me God, Rosie !” 

“But it has, dear Elmer. And you will marry me as 
you promised?” 

“My father — ” he began. 

“Oh, do not mind him, Elmer,” cried Rosie. “It is of 
me that you must think. Of me, your wife before God.” 

She clung to him frantically, weeping, imploring, re- 
proaching, kissing his hand in an agony of shame, remorse 
and terror. He tried to soothe her grief with a show of 
tenderness, and succeeded marvelously. It was a clear night, 
and by the light of the gleaming stars, she could see the pale 
outline of his face and mark its softening expression. 

“I will be such a good wife to you, Elmer,” she whisp- 
ered softly. “I will love you so dearly and be so true and 


384 


THE WATTERSONS. 


devoted and tender that you will love me all over again. I 
have had no chance of showing my love, have I ? You 
cannot know what a good wife I will be, can you, dear 
Elmer? Em sorry about the letters, but I had to write and 
tell you, you know, Elmer. And you promised to marry me 
really, a thousand, thousand times, and I wanted to tell you 
that we had no time to lose. Say you will marry me, Elmer, 
say it, or I shall die!’' 

Down on her knees at his feet she crouched, weeping 
and pleading, a piteous sight. Once on that very spot she 
had turned from him in all her pride of virtue and outraged 
modesty. Now she knelt to him, kissing his hands and 
moistening them with her tears. Now she knelt to him 
weeping, praying, a poor, weak, stricken little creature, cry- 
ing out that no one loved her; that everyone was cruel to 
her and imploring the wretch who was the cruelest of all for 
mercy and justice. 

‘Toor little Rosie,” said Elmer, bending over her with 
tears of genuine pity in his eyes. He had throughout this 
scene tried to evade her eyes, and he now got the first full 
look into her face. He was shocked by the alteration in 
her. If there had been the remotest possibility of his yield- ' 
ing to the poor girl’s entreaties the sight of that thin, pale, 
hollow-eyed face destroyed it utterly. 

“Oh, Elmer,” cried Rosie, springing up radiant with 
joy and hope, “you will never regret your kindness to me. 

I will worship you all my life. My Elmer.” 

She kissed his hands again and, like a child restored to 
happiness, began to prattle of her trouble. 

“Mama is very hard to me, Elmer. She hates me — she 
always did. Nobody ever loved me but my Elmer and the 
dear General. He came the other day to see me, the dear, 
good General, but Mama was very rude to him and he will 
never come again. Aunt Sadie came to, but I locked my 
door and pretended to be asleep. She would know if she 
saw me. Didn’t I do right, dear Elmer, to quit Murly’s and 
stay at home? I knew you would think so and I am glad, 
but oh, Elmer, I cannot hide it from Mama much longer. 
Oh dear Elmer, I am so, so grateful to you.” 

Grateful for what? For throwing a kind word of pity 


IN WHICH ROSIE PLEADS AND ELMER PROMISES. 385 

to the little wretch after ruining her. For condescending to 
hold her in his arms after robbing her of all a woman holds 
sacred. 

‘‘Rosie/’ said Elmer, interrupting her raptures, “you 
must go in now like a good little girl. I will make all 
arrangements tomorrow for taking you away with me. I 
will send Jacques in the evening with a note when I have 
everything completed. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, dear Elmer,” said Rosie clinging to him im- 
ploringly. “But — but, oh Elmer, you will surely come?” 

“Yes, Rosie,” said Elmer, kissing her to reassure her. 
“Have you any money, Rosie?” 

“No, Elmer.” 

“I will give you some now. Keep it about you. Now 
good night.” 

“Oh Elmer, Fm afraid.” 

“Afraid of what?” 

“Don’t be angry, Elmer,” said Rosie, frightened at 
his harsh tone. “I’ll wait for you, really I will, Elmer.” 

I She looked up at him, making a pitiful attempt to smile 

i cheerfully, and he bent down and kissed her again. 

I He remained for a time motionless in the shadow of 

I the verandah when she had gone. He had heard the sound 
of a footfall on the walk and he did not care to be seen 
there by any one. The footfall ceased and, stepping out of 
the sahdow, he advanced a pace or two — and was confronted 
by the Reverend Mortimer Ringrose who, avoiding the hard 
walk, was advancing softly across the grassy lawn, coming 
briskly around the little porch. Neither could avoid the 
other. They met face to face and, pausing, stood for a 
moment staring at each other. Elmer looked startled. His 
Reverence absolutely frightened by the sudden and unex- 
pected appearance of the young man. Elmer was the first 
to recover. 

“Oh, ho!” said he, smiling, “rather late for pastoral 
calls. Your Reverence.” 

“Ah, Brother Marblemore,” said the minister, in a tone 
of voice that plainly betrayed his perturbation of mind. “I’m 
glad to see you ; very glad to see you.” 

He advanced a step, holding out his hand with that 


386 


THE WATTERSONS. 


unctuous smile which naturally accompanies the pastoral 
handclasp. Elmer, nothing loath, shook hands with him, 
chuckling softly as at an exquisite joke. 

''Called to consult with the little widow, no doubt,’’ said 
he, drolly. 

"Yes,” replied His Reverence, "I wished to see Sister 
Rosewood on a matter of very great importance.” 

"It must be,” said Elmer, ironically. "You work too 
hard. Your Reverence. Day and night — night and day. It 
is really too much.” 

"I must do my duty,” said His Reverence, with rather 
a pale smile. 

"To be sure ! And when your duty calls you to the 
bedside of a widowed sister at midnight. Your Reverence is 
not one to shirk it. Ha, ha, ha !” 

"It is not so late,” said His Reverence, hastily, "it is 
scarcely ten o’clock.” 

"What matters an hour or two? Your duty calls you 
and you are here,” said Elmer, shaking all over with 
laughter. 

"You are fond of chaffing. Brother,” said Mr. Ringrose, 
nervously, "but I do not mind.” 

"Come, Mr. Ringrose, don’t play the hypocrite with 
me,” said Elmer, more seriously. "I am not a tattler. At 
the same time — ” 

"Mr. Marblemore,” spoke the minister, straightening his 
lithe form suddenly ; "enough of this. I have been playing 
a part with you because I wished to see how far your assur- 
ance would carry you. Now, let me ask : what are you doing 
here at this hour, pray?” 

Elmer started. "Oh, that’s your game is it?” he cried 
with an oath; "you had better sing lower or I’ll make this 
town too hot to hold you.” 

"Mr. Marblemore, I ask again : what are you doing here 
at this hour?” said His Reverence, raising his voice a bit. 
"Nothing good, I fear. Do you think I do not know the 
relations existing between you and little Rosie? Do you 
think that I have not marked her retirement, her pale cheeks 
and the general alteration in her?” 

The minister was smiling broadly. Elmer stood dum- 


IN WHICH ROSIE PLEADS AND ELMER PROMISES. 387 

founded. He had meant but to banter the other and enjoy a 
good laugh at his expense; but his quick-witted opponent, 
recalling Elmer's distracted looks in the first moment of 
their encounter, and connecting them and the young man's 
late presence near that house with Rosie's unaccountable 
seclusion, had jumped at once to the right conclusion, and 
by acting upon it promptly had turned the tables upon his 
sarcastic adversary. 

'^Yes, I have marked all this," continued His Reverence, 
sadly, ‘fit has filled me with uneasiness and pain — so deep 
was my grief that I could not sleep tonight, and rising from 
my couch I came here, hoping against hope, to find you to- 
gether so that I might warn you against the evil conse- 
quences of the course you are pursuing. You have done a 
great wrong to that young girl, a wrong which can never be 
undone. What would Brother Marblemore, your Christian 
father, say if he knew? You were tempted, no doubt, and 
the temptation was strong while Human Nature is weak and 
erring. It is sad, indeed, to reflect upon, but young men 
will be young men and Human Nature will always be the 
same. It governs us all; we are all alike subject to its weak- 
nesses." 

His Reverence paused, shaking his head dolefully. 
Elmer's glance had flashed from bantering gayety to hot 
anger, which gave way to uneasiness at mention of his 
father, but flashed into strong admiration before His Rever- 
ence had finished speaking. 

‘'You win," he said, holding out his hand. 

His Reverence clasped and shook it warmly. 

“Ah, my young friend," he said, sadly, “if you would 
but let me — " 

“Come, that'll do," said Elmer, with returning irrita- 
tion, “don't rub it in for the devil's sake ! So long !" 

He turned away, and His Reverence looking after him 
shook his head sadly. 

“Sad, very sad ! " murmured His Reverence, mounting 
the steps of the little porch. “Oh, Human Nature, you have 
much to answer for. Alas ! how sinful men are !" 

He produced a key from his pocket and noiselessly un- 
locked the door, and, still shaking his head dolefully, went 
softly into the house. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


IN WHICH ROSIE WAITS IN VAIN. 

Elmer chuckled a good deal on the way home. He was 
filled with profound admiration at the cunning displayed 
by His Reverence in their late encounter, and feeling him- 
self secure from that gentleman’s interference, he could not 
but laugh with all a young rake’s glee in the depraved in- 
clination of a man in His Reverence’s position. He felt in 
no degree shocked by it. It bore out his previous belief in 
the depravity of all mankind. 

“We’re all alike, preacher and laymen, mother and 
daughter,” he muttered, chuckling. “It’s Human Nature, 
as His Reverence says.” 

His glee, however, was soon succeeded by gloom, as 
he recalled little Rosie’s condition and his own predicament 
in consequence. 

“It’s too infernal bad,” he muttered, trying to think of 
some way out of it. He could think of nothing but flight. 
He must go away at once. He would thus, by cutting off 
all hope from Rosie, compel her in pure desperation to go 
into concealment until her trouble was over. 

It was Myrtle he feared; Myrtle alone. What would 
she think of him when Rosie’s ruin became known and he 
was pointed out as her seducer? He doubted not that he 
could win her forgiveness in time, but he was hurt in an- 
ticipation by the sorrow his guilt would occasion to this 
pure saint, who had become so dear to him. 

A white and troubled face looked out of his mirror that 
night. He fell into a restless sleep, thinking of his trouble, 
and it was the first thing that occurred to his mind on 
awakening in the morning. What would Myrtle think? 
What would she say? What do? He must see her once 
again and in some way prepare her mind for the shock, so 
that when it came she would think less hardly of him, recall- 
ing his repentant looks and humble demeanor. Yes, he would 


IN WHICH ROSIE WAITS IN VAIN. 389 

see her once more, and then go away until it had blown 
over. Perhaps Rosie could be induced to go away. Perhaps 
if he sent for her — perhaps. He lay for some time plan- 
ning and scheming impossible things without reaching any 
definite conclusion, except that he must flee. 

He heard someone moving about his chamber, but 
thinking it was Jacques, his colored body servant, he did 
not move, but a soft chuckle coming to him made him rise 
quickly and look out. It was Mr. Marblemore. Elmer's 
rooms, but especially his bed chamber, were fitted up with 
all the dainty elegance of a woman's bower. The windows 
overlooking the vast lawn, were curtained in the sofest of 
white lace, rich crimson hangings divided the apartments ; 
the carpets and rugs were of the costliest and the furniture 
of pure white enamel. The dressing tables, chairs and 
stands were of exquisite design and workmanship. They 
were littered with a thousand pretty knick-knacks in the 
way of toilet articles, pictures, jewelry, bottles of perfume, 
pipes and cigarettes. 

Mr. Marblemore was moving about in the midst of this 
confusion, softly taking up the various pretty knick-knacks 
in his thick, clumsy fingers. His curling lip betrayed the 
scorn he felt for all these soft luxuries. He himself was 
a plain man, a lover of plain fare and plain surroundings. 
He had built this gorgeous mansion as a monument to his 
greatness, but he had ever felt out of place in it. He had 
no personal attendant, although the house was full of serv- 
ants. One plainly furnished chamber to sleep in, with a 
room in which to pursue his mechanical experiments was 
all he asked or held in the great house of which he was the 
master. 

'‘Eh, Daddy," said Elmer, yawning, "trespassing again, 
old boy?" 

"You're a woman, Elmer," said the banker, smiling, "a 
good-for-nothing young woman." 

"We can’t all be like you. Daddy. One in a family is 
enough." 

"I do not blame you for this kind of thing," said Mr. 
Marblemore, seating himself beside a window, and filling his 
vast lungs with the pure air. "No, I was merely remarking 


390 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Upon it. But come, my boy, you are going down with me 
this morning?'’ 

^^Yes. I say. Daddy." 

''Well," said Daddy, as Elmer paused. 

"I would like to undertake that business which you 
were thinking of entrusting to Davidson." 

"You? Why you don’t know anything about it." 

"You can explain. I’ll carry it through. You often say 
I’ve a good head for business." 

"So you have if you only weren’t so restless. All you 
need is tying down. But this is away beyond your power, 
Elmer. It requires a man of experience, and one who will 
devote himself to it earnestly." 

"I can do that. Daddy. You should trust me. I’ve got 
to understand all the ropes before I can be of real assistance 
to you. How can I learn them better than by coming into 
actual contact with men and things? I know all that can 
be learned about the banking business here." 

Mr. Marblemore interrupted him with a shout of 
laughter. 

"You learned it all in three months, didn’t you?" he 
said. "Why, you rogue, I don’t know it all yet, and I’ve 
been in business for twenty-five years. Haw ! Haw ! Haw ! ’’ 

"Well, Daddy," said Elmer, laughing, "I mean that I’ve 
got a general idea of it all and I want to learn something of 
the many threads leading from your office to the Lord only 
knows where — all over the world. Daddy, eh? Truly you 
are a wonderful man to grow so great and control so much 
from a little country town. It is stupendous. I had no idea 
how extensive your interests were until I looked into them. 
But come. Daddy, I’m really very much in earnest about 
taking hold of this thing. I did not know before that busi- 
ness was so fascinating. Will you entrust this commission 
to me?" 

"No, Elmer. I did not grow so great, as you put it, by 
entrusting business of such importance to graceless young 
scamps like you. It would be poor business, my son. I can 
see Jocelyn now throwing up his hands on beholding you 
coming in with your impertinent know-it-all airs ; but if you 
really want to go, Elmer, and mean to apply yourself seri- 


IN WHICH ROSIE WAITS IN VAIN. 39I 

ously, I will send you along with Davidson in young Har- 
rington's place. That is, if you can be ready by noon, and 
are prepared to see it through to the end. It will mean six 
or eight months on the road." 

“That will suit me. Daddy. Tm getting rusty hanging 
around here, and I want to get out and limber up a bit." 

“But you must be modest and quiet and keep well in 
the background," said Mr. Marblemore, very seriously. “I 
can’t have my plans ruined by any rash actions or foolish 
delays. You must stick close to Davidson and avoid dissipa- 
tion. Davidson will be in constant touch with me, and on 
the first outbreak on your part I will order you home." 

“All right. Daddy. You're the finest old martinet 
going." 

“I'm glad, my son, that you have become so steady of 
late," said the banker in his kind voice. 

“I wish. Daddy, that I had listened to you sooner," said 
Elmer in a voice so earnest that his father was touched. 
“As it is. I've done things that make me ashamed of look- 
ing into your kind face, and I'm not easily shamed. I'll tell 
you frankly. Daddy, that my principal reason for wanting to 
get away now is to avoid the consequences of my misdeeds." 

“What ! Running away, Elmer? " said the banker, shak- 
ing his head. “That won't do. Never run; stay and face 
the consequences, my son. It will be more manly." 

“No, Daddy, I can't." 

“What is the dark crime, Elmer? " 

“You will know it. Daddy, soon enough, and all I ask 
you to remember is that it was done in the wild days that 
are past." 

“Whatever it is, Elmer, it is not as bad as your running 
from it." 

“No?" 

“No. Running is cowardly." 

“I'm not very brave. Daddy. I haven’t got your 
courage." 

“Well, this thing can't be very bad," said the banker, 
smiling, “else you wouldn't tell me of it. At any rate, I am 
glad of your general improvement. And, Elmer, I'm glad 


392 


THE WATTERSONS. 


of another thing, and that is the friendship between you and 
my girl/’ 

Elmer had risen during the foregoing conversation and 
had partly dressed himself. He now stood before a mirror 
with a couple of brushes poised in his hands, but turned half 
around on hearing the banker’s last words, then slowly 
turned to the mirror again and fell to brushing his hair with 
great energy. 

''Clara is a very beautiful girl, Elmer.” 

"Yes, she is. Daddy.” 

"She is much like her mother, who was a farm lass. I 
married her in the early days when I hadn’t a dollar ahead 
and nothing but my two hands to provide for us both. A 
good, sweet woman she was, Elmer, and I believe that, 
allowing for some trivial girlish faults due to her different 
training and environment, Clara is much like her mother 
in nature and disposition.” 

He paused for a moment, looking at Elmer, who was 
still brushing his yellow hair with great industry. Then: 
"Why not marry her, Elmer? You are not even remotely 
related, and I believe that she would make you a good 
wife.” 

"Oh, Daddy, don’t talk to me of marriage yet.” 

"I’m not hurrying you. Take your time. I’m merely 
suggesting a thing to you that would afford us great happi- 
ness. Think of it, Elmer, will you ? ” 

"Yes, I’ll think of it. Daddy.” 

There was no reason on earth why he should not have 
frankly declared himself, and then and there confessed his 
passion for Myrtle. No reason, save his innate cowardice. 

They went down together and found the ladies wait- 
ing for them in the dining-room. Elmer kissed his mother 
and shook hands with Clara, who met him with a show of 
friendliness. She looked quiet and listless, but her cheeks 
were as full and red and her form as robust as of yore. 

"Elmer is going away for some months, Mary,” said 
Mr. Marblemore during the morning meal. 

"Some months, Andrew? ” said Mary, with a glance of 
surprise. 

"Yes. He insists on going with Davidson on a matter 


IN WHICH ROSIE WAITS IN VAIN. 393 

of business which will take some months. He must start 
at noon.’' 

''I don’t like these sudden journeys, Andrew,” protested 
Mrs. Marblemore. 

''Business is business. Mama,” said Elmer gravely. 

"There’s importance for you,” said Mr. Marblemore 
with a roar of laughter. 

Elmer kissed his mother before starting. "I’m off. 
Mama; Jacques can follow with the baggage. Good-bye, 
Clara.” 

She offered him her hand. 

"Won’t you give me a kiss, Clara?” he said, bending 
down with his sweet smile. 

"Don’t talk nonsense, sir,” she said. 

She did not turn away, nor smile, nor blush, but re- 
mained motionless, her eyes slowly enlarging as he, actuated 
doubtless by a wish to please his father, pressed his lips to 
hers. Clara did pale a little then and gave a little breath- 
less gasp as if in astonishment at his presumption. Perhaps 
the soft contact called up other and painful memories in 
the breast of this strong open-minded young woman. She 
turned away without a word and walked from the room. 
Mr. Marblemore glanced in smiling significance at his wife, 
who returned his glance with a bright smile. 

Elmer paid a hurried call to the old ivy-grown mansion 
which harbored the object of his desires, but learned to his 
dismay that Myrtle had gone to Eorrestville that morning 
to lecture before a local woman’s club. He went away at 
noon, as arranged with Mr. Davidson, Mr. Marblemore’s 
most trusted agent. 

A little figure waited that night, standing on the outer- 
most edge of the lawn, in front of the little white cottage. 
It waited there for hours, peering up and down the silent 
street, retreating hastily at sound of a foreign footstep, then 
returning quickly to her post of observation. But no one 
came. Rosie wrung her hands and sobbed aloud in anguish 
of spirit. Finally, at a very late hour, she went timidly into 
the street and walked hurriedly in the direction of the 
Marblemore mansion. She wore a little round felt hat and 


394 


THE WATTERSONS. 


a kind of half cloak which, reaching to her waist, concealed 
her matronliness of outline. 

She walked on until she arrived opposite the great 
mansion. There she paused under the trees and waited. 
The mansion was wrapped in total darkness. She walked 
up and down, up and down for quite half an hour, weeping 
softly. When she had turned for the fiftieth time she heard 
the sound of a footstep close at hand. She crouched behind 
the slender trunk of a tree and peered out. The step came 
nearer. It was too dark to see who it was approaching 
until the figure arrived within a few feet of her place of 
concealment. Then she started forward with a little cry 
of recognition. 

‘‘Jacques,’' she said, “is that you, Jacques?” 

The mulatto boy had carried letters between her and 
Elmer. 

“Yes, Miss Rosewood,” he replied, coming forward. 
“Eve got a note for you. Electric light at the corner.” 

“Where is — Mr. Marblemore? ” 

“Gone.” 

“Gone ! ” gasped Rosie. “Gone where ? When ? ” 

“Chicago, this morning.” 

“Oh God!” 

She hastened to the corner, where a great white light 
hissed and spluttered, and tore open the note with trembling 
fingers. 

“Dear Rosie: I am sent away very suddenly. I will 
not be able to return for a long time. It is not my doing, 
Rosie. I am obliged to go. Don’t take it so much to heart. 
Go to your Aunt Martha until your trouble is over. I will 
see you there on my return. Please do this, dear Rosie, 
for my sake as well as your own. Good-bye. I will return 
as soon as I can. We shall be very happy together yet, 
you and I. Lovingly, Elmer.” 

Rosie stared at the bit of paper for a long time in 
tearless wide-eyed grief. She understood it all clearly. 
Elmer had fled, leaving her to bear the shame and guilt 
alone. 

“Is it all right. Miss Rosewood?” asked Jacques. 

“Yes,” she said blankly. “Yes, it’s all right.” 


IN WHICH ROSIE WAITS IN VAIN. 


395 


'‘I am to go to him. Shall I tell him anything? '' 

''No — yes — no — tell him nothing — anything.’' 

She turned away, not towards home, but townward, 
walking with uncertain steps, but still pushing onward, as 
if with a settled purpose in view. The electric lights were 
still blazing on the square. It was then not yet midnight, 
but Rosie had barely reached the corner when they went 
down and, glowing redly for a moment, died out. At the 
same moment the town clock boomed out the hour of mid- 
night. Rosie shivered, but pushed bravely on across the 
corner of the square, making for a patch of light which 
streamed from the windows of the principal drug store of 
the town. A clerk came forward to wait upon her. 

She knew him; ah! she knew him well — Mr. Thomas, 
her one-time ardent admirer, the youth whose meek persist- 
ence had so grievously annoyed her in the innocent past. 

"Why, Miss Rosie ! ” he said very softly, "have you 
been so very ill ? ” Her thin pale face and drawn cheeks 
quite shocked him. 

"I want to get some medicine,” said Rosie, timidly. 

"Certainly. Have you a prescription ? ” 

"No ; I want some laudanum. Mama says that lauda- 
num is good to help a person to sleep.” 

"It is very dangerous.” 

"I will be very careful, Mr. Thomas,” said Rosie, smil- 
ing faintly. 

He went to the rear and returned presently with a 
small phial, containing a dark brown fluid. 

"You must follow the directions carefully. Miss Rosie,” 
he said. "Are you not afraid of being out alone at this late 
hour?” 

"No, sir.” 

"I hope you will soon get well.” 

"Thank you,” said Rosie, the tears springing into her 
eyes at the young man’s gentle tones. 

Clutching the little bottle tightly in her hand, she 
walked into the street and hastened homeward. Would he 
have spoken to her so kindly if he knew? No. He would 
scorn her, despise her. Ah ! he would soon know. All 
the world would know her shame on the morrow. She 


396 


THE WATTERSONS. 


entered the house very softly and slipped into her cham- 
ber without disturbing her mother's slumbers. A small 
lamp placed upon a little round table burned dimly. She 
took off her hat and cloak and sat down on the little bed, 
very tired, hot and panting from her quick walk and long 
night vigil. She undressed slowly and put on her snowy 
nightgown, and, standing before the mirror, unloosened her 
jet-black hair, which fell in a shower of curls upon her 
shoulders. Her face looked very pale enframed in that 
glossy black crown — very pale and thin. Once it was round 
and rosy and altogether lovely in its soft dimpled prettiness. 

She sat wearily down, and with her little hands folded 
before her, she remained for a long time gazing at her 
reflection in the glass, and musing sadly upon the past. Her 
thoughts were vividly reflected upon her face. Sometimes 
she smiled a fleeting smile as of furtive joy, again her face 
was drawn in bitter grief and anguish. Great tears welled 
up into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, which from 
time to time flamed scarlet beneath a scorching blush. Of 
what was Rosie thinking in that bitter, bitter hour? No 
doubt she was looking back to a time when, pure and chaste 
as a little flower, she had borne herself in the midst of her 
friends with becoming pride and modesty. No doubt she 
was reflecting with bitter grief upon her present outcast 
lot and with anguish contrasting it with the joy and happi- 
ness that had been hers before. Ah ! it was over now ; her 
dream of love, and life must follow after; there was no 
other way ! 

One last glance she cast into the mirror, and then lay 
down upon the bed. She looked at the phial. She opened 
it, smelt it, tasted its contents. It was not unpleasant to 
the taste. Rosie hesitated, glancing around the familiar 
little room. After all, life was sweet. Though he was cruel 
and Mama hard, there were those who loved her. There 
was Aunt Sadie; there was the good General, and Myrtle 
and Mam Sue. But, oh ! would they love her when they 
knew? No! They would turn from her in horror and 
loathing. At this awful thought Rosie raised the phial to 
her lips, determined once for all to end it ; but her resolution 
weakened ere it touched them. Other thoughts came rush- 


IN WHICH ROSIE WAITS IN VAIN. 


397 


ing upon her, filling her soul with trembling terror. A thou- 
sand horrifying fancies beset her mind. The fears of child- 
hood revived in force, an unreasoning terror of the night, 
and all its horrors magnified now by an imagination keyed 
to an unnatural pitch, took possession of her. If they found 
her in the morning lying still in death, she would be carried 
out and buried in the ground and left there for good and 
all. Day and night she would lie there in the cold, cold 
ground, through winter and summer. She would never see 
the sun and the sky again, she would never see the dear 
General again, nor Aunt Sadie, nor Myrtle, nor Mam Sue, 
nor — nor him. 

She sighed piteously, and for a long tirne lay looking at 
the queer liquid that contained death, slow and painless, but 
all-destroying. If she lived, her shame would become 
known. People would talk of her. They would say, ''Rosie 
is bad.’’ Her old companions at the store would turn away 
their eyes when they met, and secretly gibe at her, saying 
that she was shameless, brazen — a strumpet, an outcast. 
Aunt Sadie would weep and Myrtle would turn from her 
as unclean. Even the General, the dear, good General, 
would cease to love her. Once more, as these dreadful 
thoughts came rushing into her little brain, she raised the 
phial to her lips ; but why did the hand falter again and 
again, fall trembling upon the bed ? Ah ! who has implanted 
in our hearts that love of life, that fear of death, that dread 
of the unknown beyond? 

"Oh my God ! I can’t, I can’t,” Rosie cried out, and, 
burying her face in the pillow, she burst into a passion of 
tears. The tears at least relieved her. She lay for a long 
time sobbing, but the sobs became less convulsive after a 
while, and gradually as she lay there weeping she fell asleep. 
The phial slipped from her hand and, rolling from the cover- 
let, fell unheeded upon the floor. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


A GLIMPSE OF DILLINGHAM THE POLITICIAN AND THE 
FAMILY MAN. 

The breach between the two big political leaders widen- 
ing constantly through the summer, assumed an aspect so 
threatening as the time for holding the Republican National 
Convention approached, as to cause the gravest forebodings 
on the part of the national leaders, and also to attract the 
delighted attention of the press of the entire country. For 
a rupture so serious in a State so important at a time so 
momentous, could not but become a matter of national im- 
portance and concern. The loss of Illinois to the party 
nationally meant its almost certain defeat. The great prairie 
State was the storm-center of the two conflicting parties, 
as was proven at the last election. Until that time Illinois 
had been reckoned as safely Republican, its usual majority 
being over a hundred thousand votes. But Southgate's de- 
termined fight against the organization at that time had 
not only surrendered the State into the hands of the Demo- 
crats locally, but had also thrown its entire electoral vote to 
that party nationally, which vote gave to it a decisive plu- 
rality over the Republican party. Judge, then, of the 
anxiety, the absolute despair of the National party leaders 
to be obliged to stand impotently by and witness a reenaction 
of a crime so heinous. 

For they could do nothing. Watterson would brook 
no interference, and so he informed them in unmistakable 
terms. He maintained his usual stern silence, and Dilling- 
ham continued jauntily on his way, the same laughing, bois- 
terous, devil-may-care, happy-go-lucky Dick as of yore. 
His growing greatness did not change him in the least. He 
was confident of triumphing over his powerful adversary. 
He turned a deaf ear to outside pleadings for harmony. The 
outcome was too uncertain to allow of sidetaking. How- 
ever large Watterson loomed in the distance, on the ground 


DILLINGHAM THE POLITICIAN 


399 


Dillingham's chances for ultimate supremacy looked equally 
promising. But to treat openly with Dillingham in the face 
of Watterson's undoubted leadership of the regular organ- 
ization was out of the question, and to secretly conspire with 
him against the great chief would have been an exceedingly 
dangerous undertaking. 

Dillingham's growth was astonishing. Nothing like it 
had ever been seen in politics before. The organization had 
been almost intact. Southgate alone held out with two or 
three districts, which would, of necessity, have been forced 
into line, for he was not powerful enough to stand alone, 
and no one would have tolerated a repetition of his late 
disastrous fiasco. But, lo ! while the leaders were congratu- 
lating themselves on the promising outlook, Dillingham came 
out with his startling denunciation of Watterson. The con- 
sternation was very great, but at the first sign of hostility 
the northern leaders, with but one or two exceptions, gath- 
ered around Watterson, declaring their fidelity to him and 
to the organization. Dillingham stood practically alone, but 
he became exceedingly active. He went the rounds among 
the State leaders, and in his jolly, oily, inimitably boister- 
ous manner he cajoled them into good humor once more. 
It was most remarkable that every man whom he visited 
came to be his sworn ally. One after another they fell away 
from Watterson, until all of the leaders of the populous 
northern districts had allied themselves with Dillingham. 
Like him, they came out openly in favor of a new organiza- 
tion, an organization formed on other lines and with a 
different policy. Like him they were outspoken against 
Watterson. The press, which at first had ridiculed Dil- 
lingham’s pretensions, came to take him very seriously. Ere 
three months had passed, boisterous Dick had won over eight 
powerful organization leaders, and with Southgate’s forces 
allied to his own he began to loom large on the political hori- 
zon. He was a power to be reckoned with, a power so great 
that the astute Sagamore preferred to maintain a discreet 
silence and to hold himself in an aloof and neutral position 
between the two contending factions. 

Mr. Watterson’s unbounded confidence in Dillingham’s 
fidelity naturally inspired Sherman with a desire to see and 


400 


THE WATTERSONS. 


talk with boisterous Dick. If Dick was really faithful to 
Watterson, what then was the meaning of this game he was 
playing? The young man, burning with eagerness to clear 
up the mystery, if mystery there was, made it his first care 
on reaching Chicago to look up his old friend. The poli- 
tician lived on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, occupying 
a handsome brown-stone house, in one of those quiet streets 
which lie by the dozen hidden between two bustling thor- 
oughfares. It was late in the evening when Sherman rang 
the bell with little expectation of finding Dick at home, but 
hopeful of learning something of his whereabouts. The 
servant who answered his ring informed him to his great 
surprise and delight that her master was at home, having 
returned but an hour before from an extensive tour of the 
State. He gave his name to the girl and was ushered into 
a small parlor, where the maid left him. A moment after 
her departure he heard Dillingham’s boisterous voice in an 
inner room. 

''What! Watterson here?” he cried in accents of con- 
sternation. And the next moment the portly figure of the 
Chicago boss hove in sight. He was in his shirt-sleeves 
and looked flushed, with hair all rumpled and tie awry. 

"Why, it’s the nephew ! ” he cried on catching sight of 
Sherman. He grasped the young man’s hands and began 
pumping his arms up and down with much energy, emit- 
ting little exclamations of surprise, delight and joy. He 
positively danced up and down in his glee. "The nephew,” 
he roared. "Ha! ha! ha! Hello, Nephew. How’s the 
Uncle, eh? Ho! ho! ho! How’s my implacable enemy? 
And dear Aunt Sadie ? How is she ? Well ? Good ! Good ! 
Good ! I’m glad to hear it. Mighty glad to hear it. Damned 
glad to hear it. And the little preacher^ how is she ? ” 

All this time he was pumping away at Sherman’s arms, 
and dancing in the greatest excitement and glee. 

"Come in and see the wife and babies. Nephew,” he 
cried, taking the young man by the arm and absolutely drag- 
ging him into an inner room. "The sweetest wife in 
Chicago ; the finest babies in Illinois, or I’m a lobster ! Here, 
Daisy, is Scott’s nephew — Sherman Watterson, you know. 


DILLINGHAM THE POLITICIAN 4OI 

Shake hands with the wife, Nephew. Kiss her. Damn it! 
you’re my friend ! ” 

As the wife was a pleasant-faced little woman, quite 
a score of years younger than her grizzled husband, Sher- 
man would willingly have complied with this last injunction, 
but he forebore on observing the indignant glance which 
Mrs. Dillingham cast at her all too generous spouse. He 
shook hands, however, cordially. 

'Tm so glad to see the nephew of Mr. Watterson,” said 
Mrs. Dillingham, smiling. 

''Look at the babies. Nephew,” bellowed Dick. "Ain’t 
they great ? ” 

There were three in all — a boy of six or seven, a girl of 
five and a second girl scarce three years old. They hovered 
shyly behind their mother, but when Dick sat down in a 
great rocker and held out his arms to them they came to 
him on the run and clambered all over him. The boy 
planted himself between the father’s fat legs, while the girls, 
after much uncertain pawing, perched each upon a knee and, 
leaning back in Dick’s arms, stared with all their might at 
the stranger. 

"This little man is Winfield Scott Dillingham,” said 
Dick, his great red face looking out from behind the three 
pretty childish faces like an amiable Goliath. "He’s going 
to be President some day. Ask him if he ain’t.” 

Winfield Scott nodded with great energy by way of 
confirmation. 

"This,” continued Dick, speaking in muffled tones from 
behind the barricade, "this young lady is Daisy Dillingham. 
She’s going to marry a Governor — ask her.” 

Daisy smiled shyly and pressed her rosy cheek hard 
against her sire’s cheek, hugging him with both arms cling- 
ing tightly around his neck. 

"And this,” said Dick, kissing the youngest warmly, 
"is Sadie Dillingham. She’s never going to marry at all. 
She’s going to be Papa’s girl always. Ask her.” 

Sadie hid her face on her father’s broad breast, but her 
curly head kept bobbing up and down in vehement con- 
firmation. 


402 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''A fine family, Dick, upon my word,’’ said Sherman 
heartily. 

“When did you come to town, Nephew? ” 

“Two weeks ago. I’m taking a run around the world.” 

“Good! Trying your pin feathers, eh? Well, you’ve 
come to the right town. Chicago’s the only place. Greatest 
city on earth ! But it’s high time I was gittin’ down to the 
Tlace,’ Daisy,” continued Dick, gently depositing his chil- 
dren on the floor and rising to his feet. “Come on down 
with me. Nephew.” 

“Can’t you let the Tlace’ go over until tomorrow, Dick, 
now that Mr. Watterson is here — ” 

“Couldn’t think of it, Daisy. Business before pleasure, 
you know — meetin’ to attend, friends to see. Nephew’ll be 
around some other time — say Sunday. Now, then,” con- 
tinued Dick, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling, “I want my 
coat, my vest and hat. I wonder who’s going to get them 
for me ? ” 

The little ones dashed away, shrieking with delight, 
and returned presently, each bearing one of the desired 
articles of dress. Dick placed himself on his knees, and 
Winfield Scott, after much strenuous tugging succeeded in 
placing the waistcoat in proper position on his sire’s broad 
back. Daisy followed with the coat. This was a matter 
of greater moment, requiring the united eflforts of Daisy and 
Winfield Scott ere it was properly adjusted. Little Sadie 
brought up the rear with her father’s great silk hat, and 
Dick stood forth ready for the street. 

“Now,” said Dick, again surveying the ceiling, “I 
wan’t my cane, two cigars and four matches.” 

With another shriek the children scattered and ere long 
returned, Winfield Scott carrying the cigars, Daisy the cane 
and little Sadie holding aloft the required number of 
matches. Then Dick, calling them good babies, kissed them 
all around, and followed up his wife, who had discreetly re- 
treated behind a convenient curtain, from whence a pro- 
digious smack announced the conjugal parting. 

“You will surely come again, Mr. Watterson,” said 
Mrs. Dillingham, reappearing with her husband, whose arm 


DILLINGHAM THE POLITICIAN 403 

she was trying to remove from about her waist. ^'Next 
Sunday ? 

Sherman promised, and with his old friend sallied forth 
into the street. 

''I congratulate you, Dick,'' said Sherman, patting him 
on the shoulder. had no idea you had such a pretty 
family." 

'‘Don’t look it, eh? " said Dick, chuckling. "Few people 
know about my family. Family's sacred, I think. Finest 
wife in the universe, Sherman, and ain’t them babies great? 
Now I move that we walk to Clark Street, and townward 
till we run across a cab. A little exercise won't hurt us 
any. Yes, sir, fine family that," he continued as they swung 
into a long, sweeping stride. "I ain't much on the goody- 
good myself, but I'm a much better man because of rny wife 
and babies. You wouldn't think, now, that I go to church 
every Sunday? Ha! ha! ha! Well, I do. I ain't much on 
praying, but I go through the motions and so set the babies 
a good example. They would think it odd, now, goin' to 
church with the wife, and me stayin' at home, wouldn’t 
they? So I go. Yes, and when bedtime comes I go down on 
my knees with the babies. Ho ! ho ! ho ! Great sight, eh ? 
Wouldn't that tickle 'em down in the first ward if they 
knowed? I don't mean to say I pray. I forgot all the 
prayers long ago. Didn’t ever know many I guess. But I 
go down on my knees all the same. And do you know 
why?" he continued, placing his hand on Sherman's arm. 
"One night little Winfield Scott came to me and says, 'Papa 
Dick, why don't you kneel down with us like Mama? ' Just 
think! The little fellow had noticed me fightin' shy of 
prayers, and somethin' told him that if Mama prayed I 
ought to, too. What could I do? I was caught dead to 
rights, and the wife wasn’t there at the moment to help 
me out of the hole, neither. So what does I do but go down 
on my knees and go through the motions. And ever since 
then when I'm at home I kneel down with the wife and 
babies." 

"You did just the right thing, Dick," said Sherman with 
the air of a great-great-grandfather. 

"Eh! I think so. I'm not tryin' to whine out of all 


404 


THE WATTERSONS. 


my cussedness, you understand. I don’t expect to git many 
o’ the good things goin’ in the next world, but, by God ! Fll 
try to give my babies a chance at ’em. I’m not the kind of 
man that thinks he kin make good fifty years of general 
cussedness by gittin’ down on his marrow bones an’ snivilin’ 
a prayer or two. Not I. I’ll take what’s cornin’ to me here 
an’ hereafter, an’ I’ll not squeal, neither. That’s me! I’ve 
done some pretty shabby things in my little two-step, all 
right, all right, but I’m willin’ to take the consequences, 
whether it’s everlastin’ burnin’ or what it is, but my babies 
shall have a show for the other place.” 

“Why, you’re not so bad, Dick.” 

“Oh ! I wouldn’t pick your pocket or rob a church, but 
— well, you understand. I’m a politician for what there is 
in it. Whatever you read in the papers concerning me. 
Nephew, is pretty near the bull’s-eye. And they do rub it 
in, eh? especially about now.” 

“Dick, are you against my uncle, or are you playing a 
game ? ” 

“Playin’ a game I ” said Dick in surprise. “What makes 
you think I’m playin’ a game? No, I’m not playin’ no game. 
Politics is politics, and I’m not in politics for my health.” 

“Dick, I cannot believe that you would side with a man 
like Southgate against your old friend.” 

,Dick interrupted him with a yell of laughter; then, hail- 
ing a passing hansom, they got in and went speeding town- 
ward. 

“I’m goin’ to show you my poodle. Nephew,” said Dick, 
humorously. “Didn’t know I had a poodle, eh? Great 
dog that ! Ho ! ha ! ha ! Oh Lord ! Oh Lord ! ” 

Dick’s “Place” was a gorgeous saloon, situated in the 
very heart of the first ward — a very palace, brilliantly illu- 
minated, and glittering with mirrors and great glass win- 
dows. About two score men were gathered there, standing 
at the long bar or sitting around tables drinking. Sherman 
coming in with Dick was for a moment quite dazzled by the 
brilliance of it all and confused by the clamor of laughing, 
cursing, shouting voices. Their entrance attracted general 
attention. Dick was hailed on all sides, and the invitations 
to drink showered upon him by his boisterous patrons were 


DILLINGHAM THE POLITICIAN 


40s 


sufficient evidence of his popularity, had Sherman needed 
any such evidence to make the young man tremble for his 
uncle. For these men were all politicians, some of them 
quite important figures in the State organization. Many of 
them he had seen at Clarenceburg. There were Brockington 
and Summerville and Applegate and Spitzbub, besides many 
men of minor importance. Their presence here boded his 
uncle no good, if Dick was really in earnest, which he knew 
no reason to doubt. 

Dick, paying little heed to his vociferous admirers, led 
the way into a little room behind the bar. 

‘T’m out, Dick,’’ he said, in passing to the chief bar- 
tender. 

'T see, Dick,” replied the other. 

nice place, eh ? ” said Dick complacently, as he 
seated himself opposite his guest, with a small round table 
between them. 

''Yes, indeed.” 

"Pays well,” said Dick, musingly. "Boys all patronize 
me. A bottle of wine, Dick — my kind — and some cigars.” 

"Southgate wants to see you, Dick,” said the bartender. 

"Hold him awhile. Yes,” continued Dick, filling Sher- 
man’s glass and his own, "I do a good business, but I’m 
goin’ to give it up. The wife says it’s degradin’.” 

He looked at Sherman inquiringly. 

"It all depends upon the point of view, Dick.” 

"Would you do it — sell liquor, I mean?” 

"No, Dick, not if I had strength enough to handle a 
pick and shovel.” 

"Wouldn’t care to see your son in the business, eh, if 
you had one ? ” 

"No.” 

"So you see the wife’s right.” He sat drumming on the 
table a while in silence. "Don’t drink much myself. I 
haven’t been drunk twice since I was married. Still, the 
wife ain’t contented, an’ I’m goin’ to give it up. Good 
business, though,” he added regretfully. 

"You are not a poor man, Dick, are you? ” 

"Oh, so, so ! Got somethin’ put away for the babies. 
Life’s insured heavily for the wife in case I go ofif. I 


4o6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


would be worth a good deal more if I knew how to hold on 
to it, but, fact is, Tm a mark for every poor devil in town. 
It’s ‘Dick, I’m out of work; gimme a dollar,’ or it’s ‘Dick, 
there’s a family over there ain’t got no coal,’ or it’s ‘Dick, 
that family’s starvin.’ They all come to me. Other ex- 
penses, too. Last Christmas I gave away eight thousand 
turkeys, and I don’t know how many pairs of shoes to 
kids, so’s they could go to school. Then there’s the trip 
across the Lake every first of August for the women and 
children. Costs like hell. Took six thousand last trip, and 
gave ’em a good time. Counts up.” 

“What will you go into, Dick, if you quit this ? ” 

“Dunno yet. I’m looking around. Hope to find some- 
thing that’ll grow, so’s I kin turn it over to Winfield Scott 
some day. What do you think of real estate ? There ought 
to be good money. But time enough. Now I’ll show you 
my poodle.” 

He hurried away, laughing like mad, and returned in 
two minutes with Southgate. Sherman knew the man. He 
looked much the same as he remembered to have seen him 
at the last State Convention, but there was a subtle change 
in him that Sherman did not like. He was quite as florid, 
portly and important as of yore; he looked quite as pros- 
perous; his moustache was waxed as stiffly as ever, but 
there was a wavering uncertainty about his mouth and a 
look of suspicion and fear in his eyes as they followed Dil- 
lingham’s movements, that reminded Sherman strangely of 
the animal with which Dick had classed him. For South- 
gate was the poodle that Dillingham had referred to — 
Southgate, and no other. He glanced distrustfully at Sher- 
man, then at the bottle and cigars, as if he suspected him of 
having poisoned them. 

“Here’s Southgate,” cried Dillingham, clapping the 
man on the shoulder with force enough almost to fell him 
to the floor. “Southgate, the great ! Southgate, the only ! 
Southgate, the master politician of his time ! Southgate, 
who defied the great Watterson ! Southgate, who defeated 
the organization. Ha, ha, ha ! ” 

He was so boisterous as he spoke, looking down at 
Southgate with undisguised insolence and contempt, and 


DILLINGHAM THE POLITICIAN 


407 


Southgate^s smile was so feeble, his manner so uneasy and 
distrustful, and withal so shrinking and submissive, that 
Sherman at once understood the relations between them. It 
was indeed the master and the poodle. 

"'Have a drink, Southgate,’' cried Dillingham, boister- 
ously. "Ha, ha, ha ! Have a drink, mighty one. Ho ! let 
us drink to the political remains of the great Watterson ! ” 

"Yes, yes,” cried Southgate, eagerly. "Down with 
Watterson. Ha, ha, ha ! ” 

His manner, though eager, was full of suspicion and 
disquiet. The laugh was a hollow pretense — a shallow 
mockery of mirth. 

"Ho, ho, ho ! ” shouted Dillingham. "Down with Wat- 
terson ! ” 

"We’ll do him up brown, won’t we, Dillingham? ” cried 
Southgate, with the eagerness of an old, old man. 

"Don’t call me Dillingham, Eddie,” pleaded Dick, grin- 
ning ; "it sounds so cold. Call me Dick. Ha, ha, ha ! ” 

"All right, Dick,” said Southgate. "I say, Dick, do you 
see what the papers are saying about him and about us ? ” 

"Yes, yes, Eddie. We ain’t very popular, eh? But, 
hang the papers, say I ! What do we care for the papers ? ” 

"But, Dick—” 

"Don’t call me Dick, Eddie,” said Dillingham, implor- 
ingly. "Call me Dickey. It sounds so afifectionate. Call 
me Dickey boy, Eddie. Ha, ha, ha ! ” 

He lay back in his chair and roared with laughter, his 
great belly shaking like a jelly. 

"You’re feeling good tonight, Dick,” said Southgate, 
biting his nails and staring across at his merry companion. 

"Ain’t I got cause to be? Ain’t our grand scheme 
working? Ain’t we got the whole State? Ain’t Watterson 
down, and ain’t we on top? ” 

"Yes, yes, yes,” cried Southgate. 

He looked so old and worn and haggard that Sherman 
felt sorry for him. Was this fearful, suspicious, shaking 
old man the same who had stood up against the great Wat- 
terson ? The man who had caused the organization the first 
defeat in its history? It did not seem possible. Sherman 
was at a loss to understand his present subserviency to Dil- 


4o8 


THE WATTERSONS. 


lingham. How had Dick gotten the upper hand of him, and 
for what purpose? 

''I say, Dick,’' said Southgate, ''don’t forget your prom- 
ise to me. I’m next in line for Nightingale’s seat.” 

"Of course you are, Eddie,” bellowed Dick. "Anything 
you want is yours. If you don’t see it, just ask for it. To 
be sure, you’ll go to the United States Senate, Eddie. Who 
in all this State deserves as well of the party as you? Who 
worked so hard for it as Eddie Southgate of Peoria? Who 
fought for it so grandly as you? Who carried it to vic- 
tory so often as you?” 

"No one, Dick,” cried Southgate, eagerly. "I did. I 
did.” 

"You bet you did,” said Dillingham, eyeing him with a 
peculiar malevolence. "But I ain’t introduced my friend 
yet. Mr. John Smith, of Jacksonville.” 

"Ah, Mr. Smith,” said Southgate, shaking the young 
man’s hand with the unctuous smile of the practised poli- 
tician. "Seems to me I’ve heard of you before.” 

"He’s heard of John Smith before,” yelled Dillingham, 
pounding upon the table in uproarious delight. 

"I’ve seen Mr. Smith somewhere,” murmured South- 
gate, looking hard at Sherman, "but I can’t just place him.” 

Dillingham, however, fearful, perhaps, that Sherman 
would not care to masquerade under an assumed name, gave 
Southgate no time to question the young man, but called 
upon Dick, the bartender, to admit those who wished to 
see him, and several of the more important leaders came 
in. Southgate pressing against the wall, eyed them all dis- 
trustfully. And so did Sherman, though for a far dif- 
ferent reason. He could hardly doubt, seeing them here, 
that they had turned against his uncle, and yet, like his 
uncle, he could not bring himself to believe Dillingham un- 
faithful. At any rate, there was no Dillingham-Southgate 
faction. It was all Dillingham. The Peoria man was 
utterly eliminated from the fight. Dick had somehow 
wormed himself into Southgate’s confidence, and, taking 
advantage of him, had robbed him of every vestige of 
power, though he permitted him to hang at his heels, a 


; DILLINGHAM THE POLITICIAN 409 

sorry figure, subjected to the coarse ridicule of his former 
adherents. 

More wine was brought and more cigars. The men 
stood about talking in low tones, each waiting his turn with 
Dillingham. Sherman exchanged nods with several, but 
did not go forward to shake hands, nor did any one of them 
approach him. Southgate stared around at them all sus- 
piciously. No one came near him, and those to whom he 
turned walked away from him with little ceremony. They 
looked at him and talked in whispers, laughing heartily. 
The man had committed the unpardonable mistake of en- 
trusting his all to a confederate. The confederate had 
played him false. He deserved no sympathy. Seeing Sher- 
man sitting all alone, Southgate came over to him. 

''Mr. Smith, are you acquainted with Mr. Watterson? '' 
he asked, casting around him a fearful glance of distrust. 

I “Yes.” 

i "Do you know how he feels towards me?’' said 
Southgate. Then, without waiting for an answer, he con- 
tinued hurriedly. "I assure you I am not his enemy. I 
never really have been his enemy. I always admired him 
truly ; I loved him once. But, sh ! don’t tell Dick. He 
ain’t to be trusted. He came to me cursing Watterson, and 
asked me to join hands with him to down him.. I agreed, 
' because he promised me Nightingale’s seat — he was to be 
leader of the new organization. But no sooner had we 
I formed our pact than he goes to Summerville, Dickson, 
I Devlin and all my other allies, and — and wins them away 
I from me. He undermined me, sir. I have absolutely no 
I power now. All my leaders, my late allies and friends look 
I to Dillingham, and not to me. I distrust him. I distrust 
I everybody. Watterson is the only man that is trustworthy 
in the State. He always was trustworthy. He always was 
a loyal friend. I was forced to do what I did by men 
around me. If Watterson will only be friends with me, I 
may be able to do something before the Convention.” 

He would play the traitor to Dillingham as he had to 
Watterson, thought Sherman. 

"I do not see, Mr. Southgate, why you should tell me 
all this,” he said coldly. "As Dillingham’s friend — ” 


410 


THE WATTERSONS. 


“Because I trust you/’ said Southgate quickly. “You 
remind me strongly of someone whom I did trust once, j 
Smith — John Smith, of Jacksonville — ” 1 

“Hey, there, Southgate,” cried Dillingham, coming ■ 
over. “Don’t talk my friend’s arm off.” 

Southgate shrank away, but at a word from Dillingham ' 
he put his arm into that of his master, and they started out 
together. j 

“Wait for me. Nephew,” said Dick, looking over his 
shoulder. “Got a meeting to attend upstairs.” 

“How long will you be?” 

“Dunno. An hour — two hours, mebbe.” ' 

“Too long, Dick. I’ll finish this cigar, then go home.” 

“Well, so long. Be sure and be around to the house 
on Sunday. The wife’ll be lookin’ for you. And, say,” he 
added, approaching the young man, “when you write Scott, 
tell him about my poodle.” 

“Look here, Dick,” said Sherman very earnestly. “Are 
you against Uncle Winfield?” 

“What makes you think I’m not?” said Dick quite 
sharply. 

“Uncle Winfield believes in you — ” 

“What!” 

“I say that Uncle Winfield, in spite of appearances, 
believes that you are faithful to the organization. But I’ll 
tell you frankly, Dick, that after what I have seen here 
tonight I have my doubts.” 

Dillingham laughed strangely, but he wrung the young 
man’s hand warmly. 

“Wait and see. Nephew,” he said. “Don’t you think I’d 
mak€ a good State leader? Wouldn’t I look swell in Night- 
ingale’s seat ? Eh ? ” 

The cries of “Dick, Dick,” at this moment became quite 
clamorous, and again shaking hands with Sherman, Dick 
hurried away, leaving Sherman filled with doubt and 
anxiety. Things looked very black for his uncle, he re- 
flected on his way home, and he was exceedingly sorry on 
writing to his uncle not to be able to confirm him in his 
good opinion of Dick. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


IN WHICH MRS. ROSEWOOD BECOMES JEALOUS. 

What the Reverend Mortimer Ringrose had at one 
time feared had not as yet made itself sufficiently manifest 
to cause him serious uneasiness. His popularity, far from 
waning, was steadily on the increase. The Watterson pew 
did indeed remain empty, but other pews were crowded to 
the aisle by folk of shallower intellect, who had come to 
regard His Reverence as a kind of dandified Messiah, whose 
message to earth-born sinners was pleasant of contemplation 
and easy of digestion. 

''The weak^ness of erring Human Nature is responsible 
for all evils, all the wrongs, all the sins of the world,’’ His 
Reverence was wont to say. "It is wrong to accuse our- 
selves of sin. Man, subject to the evils, the snares, the 
temptations of the world, falls victim solely by reason of the 
weakness of Human Nature. If Human Nature were 
strong, and not prone to err, man would be perfect, but as 
he is swayed and controlled by Human Nature, it is mani- 
fest that man was not designed by his Creator to be perfect, 
else he would not have been imbued by his Maker with 
erring Human Nature, and thus made victim to the wiles, 
temptations and snares of the world. Let us, therefore, 
thank the good and far-seeing God who maketh the lus- 
cious grass to grow for the beasts of the field, and wisely 
inspires in them a love for the delicious herbage; who 
created the mighty ocean and maketh the finny fish, both 
large and small, to disport them in its surging waters ; who, 
out of nothing, and with a word, created the circumambient 
air and brought forth birds of infinite variety to inhabit it ; 
and who, lastly, created man, the grandest of all His works, 
making him perfect in His image, but imbuing him with 
, Human Nature, which governs him on his way through 
1 the world.” 

Thus did this reverend shepherd instill into the minds 


412 


THE WATTERSONS. 


of his flock a complacent self-pride, an indulgent self-pity. 
They listened to his discourses with smiling faces, con- 
gratulating God upon their goodness, and gently censuring 
Him for making such perfect beings subject to the sway 
of weak and erring Human Nature. Naturally, a pastor 
who could inspire such pleasing sentiments was popular, 
and deservedly so. The brothers liked him, the sisters 
adored him, for he had a way with him, had His Reverence, 
that pleased the sisters. He had a roguish eye and a tongue 
of infinite sweetness. Audacious, too, with a dashing man- 
ner when he pleased, but always gentle and deferential. 
Looking deep into the eyes of a pretty sister is a pleasant 
pastime, and may lead to greater things, for where is the 
sister so pious, so devout, so cold and rigorous as to chide 
a presumption so flattering in a person so handsome, so 
exalted, so gentle and so eloquent? 

His Reverence knew women thoroughly, having 
studied them in the best of schools — experience. He knew 
the potent power of flattery, and he employed that weapon 
with consummate skill. He had figured in scandals ere 
now, but he had come through them pure and chaste as 
the driven snow. He had been attended to his new parish 
with whisperings and rumors and counter-rumors, which 
inestimably endeared him to the sisters, especially the pret- 
tier and younger among them, who looked upon him as a 
martyr, a gentle, innocent, persecuted soul, entitled to their 
protection and pitying regard. Nor did such reputation 
harm him with the brethren, save those in years, who, like 
the elderly sisters, were disposed to severity; but these he 
won over by a devout and deferential demeanor and a cir- 
cumspect regard for all their little prejudices. 

Although he had by a series of astonishing missteps 
blundered into the good graces of the all powerful Brother 
Marblemore, His Reverence did not, therefore cease in his 
assiduous attentions to the brothers and sisters of lesser im- 
portance. He spent a certain number of hours each day 
in making calls ; he was everywhere received with smiles 
and graces, for he was a pleasant companion, with a laugh 
of his own and a good word for everybody. He listened 
with sympathy to long-winded complaints, and tempered 


IN WHICH MRS. ROSEWOOD BECOMES JEALOUS. 4I3 

his counsels to the desires of the afflicted. He was merry 
with the mirth-loving; devout with the prayerfully inclined; 
courteous to all; condoling with those in need of consola- 
tion ; soothing to the sorrowful — a gentle, sweet, mild-eyed, 
saint-like man. He never shirked his pastoral duties. He 
visited the sick, as in duty bound ; collected money for 
missionary purposes ; arranged entertainments without 
number, but all of the kindergarten kind, as the stiff-necked 
generation was still in the ascendancy, and would not brook 
the innovations which he at first had contemplated. His 
discourses were quite as brilliant as in the beginning ; their 
sameness and inanity as unmarked, and delivered with a 
pleasing eloquence and fire. In a word. His Reverence was 
a model shepherd, and his popularity, measured by his 
deserts, was no greater than it should be. 

It was a cool and cloudy day in early May when His 
Reverence, walking with his accustomed slow and graceful 
pace, turned with reluctant step in upon the walk leading 
to the little white house in which Mrs. Rosewood dwelled. 
The little cottage no longer wore that aspect of prettiness 
which distinguished it on the occasion of our first visit. It 
looked sadly bedraggled and in need of a new coat of paint 
in all its outward parts. This was all the more apparent 
because the mansions around it were as bright and gorgeous 
as ever, vying with the hues of the rainbow in riotous 
coloring. 

But His Reverence was not thinking of this. His 
step was slow and his expression one of exceeding ill humor 
as he approached the door. It was opened promptly to his 
knock, and the little widow’s smile welcomed him. The 
little parlor, too, bore traces of much ill-usage. The once 
pretty pattern of carpet was faded into an indistinguishable 
maze of shabby tracings; the flimsy furniture looked pre- 
maturely aged and weak, and the wall-paper was torn in 
places. 

^'So you have come,” said the mistress of all this in 
a sharp voice, as she seated herself opposite her reverend 
visitor. ''Your visits are becoming few and far between of 
late.” 

"I’ve told you why I should not, could not, dare not 


414 


THE WATTERSONS. 


come oftener/’ he replied in a tone in which pleading ; 
blended with reproach. ‘'Don't be unreasonable. Why did s 
you send for me today ?" • 

“Because I wanted you. I wanted to know what you j 
were doing.” j 

“Doing! I'm attending to my duties. They are not ] 
light.'' yj 

“But pleasant,'' replied Mrs. Rosewood with bitter ! 
irony. “Yes, very pleasant. Which of your beloved sisters 
engrosses Your Reverence's time and attention now? Sister 
Templeton? She needs grace no doubt, and Your Rever- ^ 

ence is the one to instill it, in her husband's absence. Or is < 
she saved already, like poor me? Then the young lady 
visiting Sister Langhorn may require Your Reverence's ser- 
vice. Or the Fowler girl, or Sister Gaynor. Yes, I can 
well believe that your duties are not light. Your Reverence 
has so many to attend to. Only it seems to me that you 
might remember your first friend, and your only real friend 
among them all.” 

From bitter irony she descended to stinging reproaches, 
which melted into tears. 

“Don't be jealous. Rose,” said His Reverence, stroking 
his black moustache and smiling. “Believe me, satire 
doesn't become you.” 

“I'm not as pretty as I was, am I?” sobbed the little 
widow. “You never tell me so, as you used. You are 
tired of me. Having used me as your spy, you now cast 
me aside !” 

“Come, Rose, don't cry; that is foolish; and it is 
wrong to say that I used you as a spy and that I now wish 
to cast you off.” 

“Did you not? Who told you everything about every- 
body when you first came, a stranger? Who went about 
to houses and meetings listening to opinions expressed of 
you, so that she might keep you informed as to how you 
were generally regarded? I did. And did you not profit by 
it? Did you not learn from the information I brought you, 
just how to approach people? You said so then. You 
avowed your debt to me in those days. You laughed, 
telling me how you wheedled Sister Hammersmith into 


UN WHICH MRS. ROSEWOOD BECOMES JEALOUS. 415 

good humor and liking of you after what I had told 
you of what she said regarding the trouble you got into 
at Wilmington, your former parish. Ah! you no longer 
need me now 

^'You are mistaken, Rose,’' said His Reverence, ap- 
proaching and bending over her. '‘I have need of you, and 
I have never deserted you. You must remember that a man 
in my position cannot be seen coming and going at all hours 
of the day into a house having such a pretty mistress, with- 
out awakening suspicion. Come, don’t be jealous. I hate 
jealousy. It doesn’t become you. You have rendered me 
invaluable service; indeed you have. Rose, and I am very 
thankful. If I seem to neglect you now and then, believe 
me, I cannot help it. I must make calls. I must keep in 
constant touch with my people. You know that. I have 
explained it to you time and again. Look into your mirror 
and you will see how little you have to fear from any one.” 

He spoke half disdainfully, but his words seemed to 
revive the spirits of the unfortunate woman. Had she 
looked into the mirror as he bade her do. she would have 
seen a face bearing few traces of its former beauty. She 
was no longer plump and rosy, but vulgarly fat, and the 
color in her cheeks was not of nature’s painting. Un- 
chastity, passion and jealousy had indelibly imprinted their 
mark upon the once comely countenance, which in place 
of peevish pettiness, now expressed all the innate coarseness 
of the woman’s soul. She was still neat ; at least to outward 
semblance, but in order to appear pleasing in his eyes, she 
had powdered and painted her face even too profusely. 

‘'I can’t help being jealous, Mortimer,” she said, 
smiling. ''You are so wicked, as I have reason to know. 
First it was Mrs. Marblemore — ” 

"No, no !” he cried, coloring with anger. "Don’t be a 
fool !” 

"I know what I am talking about, and I am not a 
fool,” she cried, with anger as quick as his own. "It was 
she ! Don’t I know ? Didn’t you go away in the hope that 
she would follow and meet you as I have often done?” 

"I say you are a fool,” he cried, pale with fear or fury, 
or a blending of both. 


4i6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''I saw her going, almost running to the depot,’’ cried 
Mrs. Rosewood. ''I saw her standing there as the train 
left, afraid, yet wanting to go.” 

“You saw this,” he cried, staring in genuine astonish- 
ment. 

“Yes, I saw it.” 

“When?” 

“The time you told me you were going to Wilmington, 
and the papers said that you had gone to Traviston. Where 
you planned to meet her I do not know, but I am very 
sure that you expected her to come, and that she wanted to 
go and started to go, but backed out at the last minute.” 

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, 
staring. 

“Don’t I?” she retorted. “Very well, but let me assure 
you, sir, that I shall know what to do if ever I verify any- 
thing between you.” 

“Rose, your jealousy has driven you mad,” said His 
Reverence, again seating himself beside her and. taking her 
hand in his. “Do be reasonable.” 

“I am reasonable,” she replied, rebelliously. 

“But when you give utterance to things so manifestly 
untrue, you are not. How can you think that I would dare 
approach Sister Marblemore, the wife of Brother Marble- 
more, harboring a purpose so audacious?” 

“You would dare anything — with a woman. Do I not 
know you?” 

“It is jealousy, all jealousy, believe me. It perverts 
your mind and makes you suspect me — suspect everyone 
with whom I interchange the commonest courtesies of life. 
Do try to overcome this jealousy. Rose. Surely the very 
number of women with whom you have from time to time 
suspected me should prove the impossibility of the thing. 
The only intercourse I have had with Sister Marblemore 
has been on church work, and you know that I very rarely 
call on her. You know that. Rose.” 

She said “Yes,” but in doubtful tones. 

He said much more to the purpose, spending half an 
hour pleading, arguing, explaining, flattering, until the 
woman’s frowns were chased away by smiles. His Rever- 


IN WHICH MRS. ROSEWOOD BECOMES JEALOUS. 417 

ence through it all seemed to labor under suppressed ex- 
citement, and scarce concealed agitation. 

He glanced often at his watch, and rose from time to 
time from his chair to take a turn through the room as he 
talked. 

''I must go now. Rose,'’ he said, at last, ^'but I will come 
in and see you at a more seasonable hour. Do not forget 
me." 

It was not likely. She followed his graceful form with 
her eyes, and in her aspect dwelt every evidence of passion- 
ate devotion. She was dominated by a feeling deeper than 
mere infatuation. It was the first passion of her life, and 
however foul it was all-absorbing. 

His Reverence turned townward, as she saw, and, 
prompted by a sudden feeling of curiosity and suspicion, 
the woman rose and went out, and walking leisurely, 
reached the foot of the lawn in time to see him turn in 
toward the great Marblemore mansion. She returned to 
the house, all her jealousy reawakened, and drawing a chair 
to the window, she stationed herself there and prepared 
resolutely to wait and watch for his return. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

IN WHICH MR. RINGROSE MEETS WITH A SURPRISE. 

The invasion of modern ideas, fads and fashions into 
Clarenceburg society was now a thing of such long stand- 
ing that the mere recollection of its early crudeness 
awakened a feeling of horror in the breasts of those who 
now moved grandly in its more exclusive circles. Mrs. 
Hammersmith, who, in view of Mrs. Marblemore's obstinate 
perversity, was recognized as the High Priestess of this self- 
constituted aristocracy, often spoke with a shudder of the 
rude houses they then inhabited, of the old-fashioned sim- 
plicity pervading them, and of the inconvenience and lack 
of luxury characterizing the life of that early time. There 
were then no carriages ; an old-fashioned surrey did service 
for all; no servants save one maid-of-all-work ; no balls; 
no receptions, but dances and parties a plenty, at which 
everyone was welcome. They worshipped first in churches 
built of logs ; these gave way in time to pretty frame build- 
ings, of which there were still three or four scattered 
through the town. With increasing wealth and importance, 
these simple structures began to be replaced by edifices of 
brick and stone. The congregation of which Mrs. Hammer- 
smith was a shining light, was among the last to awaken 
to the fact that its house of worship was old-fashioned and 
antiquated. The lateness of the discovery was not due to 
niggardliness nor to any lack of funds, but rather to the 
almost primitive simplicity of the then pastor, the Reverend 
Mr. Winslow. He was a devout rather than an ambitious 
man, an earnest, zealous Christian, in whose old-fashioned 
mind was fixed an absurd notion that pomp of circumstance 
and splendor of surroundings were secondary in importance 
to the devout worship of God. He was, however, rudely 
awakened by those of his flock who, calling his attention to 
the splendors around them, and their own poverty of ap- 
pearance by contrast, made plain to him their laudable 


MR. RINGROSE MEETS WITH A SURPRISE. 419 

intention of emulating the example of other congregations. 
The church was accordingly built with an eye singly to 
outdo all others in grandeur and extravagance. 

The church completed, it followed that a new pastor 
was required. Mr. Winslow was not only too old, but too 
old-fashioned. Looking around for a suitable shepherd, 
the attention of the powers that were was attracted to the 
Reverend Mortimer Ringrose, who, then without a pastor- 
ate, was residing with a brother clergyman at Chicago, in 
the odor of sanctity, having just emerged triumphantly 
from the ordeal of a trial by Clergy on charges preferred 
by an aggrieved husband, whose accusations were utterly 
disproved and cast to the ground. He was reputably a 
very earnest and eloquent preacher, and though there were 
those who strongly dissented, owing to the scandal in which 
he had been involved, the majority of opinions which held 
him a martyr, prevailed, and the Reverend Mortimer Ring- 
rose was called to the gorgeous pulpit of the new church. 
He had received other calls, being at the time very much in 
the public eye, and a maTtyr, but this call, having the largest 
salary attached, carried the day and the Reverend Mortimer 
Ringrose came, and saw, and conquered. 

His popularity we know, and how hard he labored to 
maintain it; knowing by experience how fleeting it was at 
best, he had from the beginning worked to gain the favor 
of the more powerful, which would stand him in good stead, 
he hoped, in time of need. The pillars of the church, with 
a single exception, he won in a trice. Brother Marblemore 
alone maintained the stifif and cold demeanor with which he 
had received him. He had nothing against the man. In 
fact, his eloquent discourses, full of subtle flattery, pleased 
the self-satisfied banker mightily, but he had schooled him- 
self to show a dignified front to the world, and he saw no 
reason to alter his demeanor toward a man whose salary 
he helped to pay, and who from the outset had borne him- 
self toward the great Marblemore with even more of def- 
erential humility than he was accustomed to receiving. This 
continued for some months, when, as we have seen. His 
Reverence absolutely blundered into the banker’s good 
graces. 


420 


THE WATTERSONS. 


But long before that time, noting the great man’s un- 
approachable pride and apparent dislike to him, His Rev- i 
erence despairing of winning his favor, cast about in his j 
mind for a means by the use of which he could dispense 
with it and still control the man; in the banker’s beautiful , 
wife, he thought he saw the charming means to that end. He : 
determined to rule him through his wife. He had done the 
like before. Knowing women, he doubted not his power of 
winning her, however cold in bearing, however proud and 
scornful in aspect. His mode of attack, his manner of 
approach, his measure of success, we have seen up to a ! 
certain point. Presuming upon what he thought he read ■ 
in the woman’s eyes, he had insinuated his proposal plan- , 
ning nothing so audacious as an absolute elopement. He 
meant but to spend a few days secretly with her in the 
great city and then return, persuading her to do likewise. 
No one would be the wiser. They could repeat their little 
journeys as opportunities arose, and in the meantime, 
through the partner of his pleasures, he would rule the man 
they wronged. 

His scheme had failed somehow miserably; and now, 
moreover, he was firmly established in the good graces of | 
the mighty banker. Nevertheless, he continued to think > 
of the woman, urged on by a passion of which he had 
deemed himself incapable. Mary’s beauty, her wealth and 
station, but above all, her incomprehensible nature, had 
won upon him unconsciously. He had meant to play the 
game with coolness, but had himself fallen a victim to the 
magnetism irradiating from this woman. He could not 
understand her. She did not encourage him in any positive 
way. She never spoke one word to him that might not have 
been uttered in the presence of her husband. Her manner 
when alone with him compelled at least a semblance of re- 
spectful deference, and yet there was that in her eyes which 
encouraged him. She knew of his passion for her, he was 
sure. She understood his purpose in coming to her at any 
rate, and yet she did not forbid his visits. And then those 
speaking eyes of hers that looked into his expressing strong 
emotion ! They encouraged him to hope, and at last em- 
boldened him to make his veiled proposal. He went away 


MR. RINGROSE MEETS WITH A SURPRISE. 


421 


hoping and believing that she would follow, and remained 
the allotted time without seeing her for whom he so 
ardently waited. He returned perplexed and astonished. 
He could not believe that she was indifferent to him, but 
what could he think in the face of this decided rebuff? He 
returned and went about his usual duties, avoiding her. 
His glance was furtive when next they met. In her eyes 
was the same troubled look that he remembered so well. 
He was dumbfounded. What was it? Had she misunder- 
stood him? Had she not taken his meaning? He was sure 
she had. Then what was it? He could not understand 
the woman at all. Her demeanor contradicted her actions. 
She was incomprehensible. He avoided her, wondering, 
his passion, fed by constant thought of her, growing. He 
attended her party because he owed it to her husband, he 
thought, to show himself there at least for a few moments. 
He pressed her hand at church and looked into her eyes 
with questioning glance. Her look was always the same — 
a troubled expression in which appeal and deep emotion 
blended. 

He had thought over the matter from every point of 
view, without reaching any conclusion, until suddenly Mrs. 
Rosewood’s jealousy had let a wondrous light in upon what 
had so long been so deep a mystery to him. She had meant 
to meet him. She had awaited only for the opportunity, 
which did not come until late. But why had she then hesi- 
tated? No doubt Mrs. Rosewood, who in her jealousy 
had haunted the station during his absence, had herself 
deterred her. A very little thing will turn a woman at 
such a crisis — a word spoken — a glance into a familiar face 
— any of a thousand possible things ; and then no doubt she 
had not fully understood him. She had perhaps thought 
his purpose an absolute elopement, and naturally she had 
hesitated. Yes, that was the solution. He was fiercely 
angry with Mrs. Rosewood for withholding this knowledge 
from him so long. He hated that little woman; he had 
never cared for her; he had seduced her for his purposes, 
but he was now disgusted with her. Her angry outbursts, 
her jealousy, her tears and ugliness, awakened loathing in 
him and — fear. 


422 


THE WATTERSONS. 


He walked quickly away from the little house with his 
eyes fixed upon the ground in deep thought, and without 
pause, turned toward the great mansion. Was Mr. Marble- 
more at home? No. Mrs. Marblemore then? Yes. 

He was shown into the little reception room just off the 
dining-room, where she presently met him, coming in 
quietly with a courteous smile of welcome. Her cheeks, 
however, were flushed and her glance questioning. 

She gave him her hand, which he gently pressed and 
released. 

''I understand,’’ said His Reverence, smiling, ''that 
Brother Marblemore is away.” 

"Yes,” she replied, inclining her head. 

"He is still in New York?” 

"He returns tonight.” 

"Ah ! He is a great man, a financial genius as he is 
truly called. It is astonishing to think that a provincial 
banker could carry through a deal of such magnitude as the 
merging of three great railroads, and do it with such con- 
summate skill! Astonishing! It was a big deal. No won- 
der his presence was required on the ground. We miss 
him sadly in the church. And you also. Sister. You have 
taken no interest in church work of late !” 

"No,” she replied, looking away towards the window. 
"I did not know of anything to do. Such work must be in- 
dicated by the proper authority, and no suggestions have 
reached me.” 

"I understand your reproach. Sister,” His Reverence 
replied, gently. "I should have called, I know, but — but 
how could I do so when I feared that I had offended you 
beyond forgiveness ?” 

She did not contradict him as he had expected her in 
pure courtesy to do. Had she done so he would infallibly 
have yielded to the passion that consumed him. She looked 
wondrously beautiful with her wealth of golden hair, her 
pure color, and fine matronly figure, which was clothed 
in a ravishing negligee gown of a sky blue tint, her favorite 
color. No, she did not gainsay him nor deny his offense, 
nor in any way reply to his self-accusation, though it was 


MR. RINGROSE MEETS WITH A SURPRISE. 423 

put in the form of an eager query. Her eyes still looked 
toward the window. 

''Is there anything in which I can assist you?’^ she 
asked, in a low voice. 

"There are several matters which I wish to talk over 
with you at a more favorable opportunity,’' he said, taken 
aback by her strange manner. 

"Very well,” she replied. 

"Are you not very lonely, Sister ?” he asked sym- 
pathetically. 

"Somewhat. Time passes slowly,” she said. 

She seemed a little more at ease, breathing freer, as if 
some fancied danger were past. 

"It is very hard to bear — loneliness,” said His Rever- 
ence, softly, "nor can we in justice blame one who, a prey 
to it, allows his mind to stray away to fields into which, if 
happily occupied, his inclination would never lead him. 
Some people are unnecessarily made subject to loneliness — 
women, say, whose husbands, forgetful of their happiness, 
leave them at home alone, with nothing to occupy their 
minds, and themselves plunge into business, politics or dis- 
sipation. They forget all about their wives and their pos- 
sible loneliness. Would it be so very wrong for a woman so 
placed to follow the natural bent of her mind and seek 
pleasure, diversion, happiness, on her own account? She 
would simply be giving way to the weakness of Human Na- 
ture, for it is Human Nature to desire happiness, and only 
through following the promptings of Human Nature, can 
true happiness be attained. The laws made to govern so- 
ciety are all aimed at curbing Human Nature, but are those 
laws therefore just?” 

He paused barely long enough to permit her to inter- 
ject a word if she chose, but she said nothing; she had lis- 
tened with almost breathless interest. Her eyes were fixed 
upon the window, and her small, plump white hands were 
folded before her. 

"The opinion of the world, founded upon those laws, 
would, I know, censure a woman who, ignoring them for the 
dictation of Human Nature, followed her inclination and 
accepted the happiness which she otherwise could not enjoy; 


424 


THE WATTERSONS. 


but the world is a harsh judge. It makes no allowances for 
the weaknesses of erring Human Nature, but, judging all 
things from its own iron-clad standard, it censures that 
which is wholly natural. And for that reason, the man and ^ 
woman seeking happiness, bid defiance to the rigid laws 
imposed upon them, and follow their inclinations, wisely 
refraining, however, from giving the world reason to frown 
upon them, by keeping secret their mutual happiness. It 
is an interesting subject for speculation, such as I am given 
to indulging in and out of season. Have you ever given 
your mind to such interesting speculations, Sister Marble- 
more 

‘'No, I cannot say that I have,’' she replied, catching her 
breath sharply. 

His manner while speaking, harmonizing with his low, 
sweet voice, was abstracted and speculative, as if he were 
merely pursuing a train of thought suggested by her lonely 
condition. 

“The study of Human Nature is a passion with me,” 
continued His Reverence, smiling. “When I see a man 
priding himself upon his greatness in politics, in business, 
or in any line of human endeavor, I smile, because I know 
that that man like other men, is subject to the weaknesses 
and the errors arising out of poor Human Nature. If that 
man, however great, curbs his natural inclinations and lives 
strictly according to the iron code prescribed by the stern 
world, he is not truly happy despite his pre-eminence. And 
yet, we all allow ourselves to be ruled by the world’s laws.” 

“Mr. Ringrose,” said Mary, gravely, turning her eyes 
full upon him, “such reasoning is utterly false. It is neither 
becoming in you to utter such sophistries, nor in me to 
listen to them.” 

His Reverence, utterly astounded, became pale and red 
by turns. 

“My dear Sister,” he cried, “I was merely following 
out a line of argument from a certain standpoint. But yo'u 
are right, and I really beg your pardon. When I get upon 
the subject of Human Nature,” said His Reverence, smiling 
deprecatingly, and pushing the fascinating subject away 
with both white hands, “I am carried away. But I must go 


MR. RINGROSE MEETS WITH A SURPRISE. 425 

now, Sister Marblemore. I will call again to talk over 
matters connected with our church work.’' 

''I shall be pleased,” she replied. 

He went away puzzled, perplexed, confounded by this 
strange woman’s inexplicable conduct. She had avoided 
his eyes persistently, but her manner had been much the 
same. He was not indifferent to her, his presence agitated 
her, yet she had repelled him — nay, absolutely rebuked him ! 
What was he to make of a woman who lured him by her 
manner, yet repulsed him with words? Who dared not 
meet his eyes, yet repelled his insinuating advances as pre- 
sumptuous? He went away quivering with passion, for 
she was very beautiful, and all the more attractive because 
apparently unattainable. 

Could he have seen the look of horror with which she 
followed his retreating form! Could he have looked back 
and seen her with head bowed against the window ; could he 
have heard the cry that came bursting from her lips: 
''Fool I Fool ! God in heaven, what a fool I was !” — could 
he have heard and seen all this, say, would not his doubts 
have been resolved? 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


J 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS DRIVEN FORTH. 

Mrs. Rosewood maintained her post beside the window 
with very great patience, but her vigilance was not rewarded 
for three long hours, when daylight merging into darkness, 
she was barely able to distinguish the form of His Reverence 
approaching. She was on the point of rushing out, when 
she saw him turn in upon the walk towards her house. 

^T have returned, you see,'’ he said smiling, when she 
opened the door to him. 'T called on Sister Marblemore 
and had a long talk with her on church matters, and then I 
made various other calls." 

It is not unlikely that he had suspected her of watching 
him, and he thus by a show of frankness cut all the ground 
from under her feet. The reproaches with which she had 
prepared to overwhelm him were silenced. 

'T am not jealous, Mortimer," she said, smiling. 

''You have no cause," he replied. "Is Rosie within?" 

"Yes, she's sleeping, I suppose. I don't know what to 
make of her." 

"I suppose not," he said, smiling sardonically. 

"She never leaves the house now and rarely her bed- 
chamber. She will see no one. She locks her door when 
Aunt Sadie comes. She's breaking her heart, the fool, over 
that Elmer. If she had used a little sense when she had him, 
she could have kept him for good. But she’s as stupid as an 
owl, and it's no wonder that he tired of her. But don't let's 
talk of her." 

"No," he replied, "a waste of time." 

They had many other things to talk of, to be sure. It 
was much later — hours later, when he took his departure, 
and Mrs. Rosewood going into the little dining-room found 
it dark. Nor was there a fire in the kitchen stove. Rosie 
was nowhere about. Mrs. Rosewood went into the girl’s 
chamber where she discovered her lying upon the bed. She 
caught the girl by the arm and shook her roughly. 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS DRIVEN FORTH. 427 

‘^Get up, you lazy devil,’’ she screamed, ‘^always sleep- 
ing like a beast. Get up and build the fire in the kitchen 
and get supper ready. And be quick about it, too, or you’ll 
be sorry.” 

She went into the dining-room to light the lamp, with 
this threat upon her lips, from whence she continued her 
scolding with unabated fury. Rosie rose, with a deep sigh, 
and, adjusting her dress, prepared to come out. 

''Oh, I wish I could sleep,” murmured the poor child, 
"for then only I forget my trouble.” 

Her mother’s shrill voice coming in to her, she hastened 
her movements and presently emerged into the dining-room, 
and going to the kitchen, she began her work by taking some 
wood from the box behind the stove with which to kindle 
the fire. 

"You’re a nice girl,” screamed her mother, who was 
bustling about the dining-room and scolding unceasingly. 
"You and your fine lover! Why didn’t you marry him, you 
fool? Why didn’t you keep him when you had him? He 
tired of your baby face, didn’t he? And no wonder! for 
there surely never was such a stupid, lazy, good-for-nothing 
girl in the world. But you’ll have to change your ways 
if you want to stay here. It’s time you were married. I’ve 
taken care of you long enough. Why don’t you marry? 
Do you think I’m going to keep you here all your life? Go 
out and make your own living. It’ll come to that yet. I’m 
tired of your everlasting whining. I hate you. I always 
did hate you.” 

"I know that. Mama,” said Rosie, catching her breath 
with a sob. 

"Don’t talk back to me !” screamed the virago. "I don’t 
want a word out of you. And if you don’t like it, you can 
go to your General, your Mam Sue, your Aunt Sadie. If 
they want you, they can have you. I don’t. I hate you.” 

Rosie did not answer, but continued slowly with her 
work. Now Mrs. Rosewood, to more effectively emphasize 
her anger and detestation, had remained standing a few feet 
from the door, glaring in at her daughter. When she had 
finished, her eyes remained riveted on Rosie’s form. She 
noticed its swelling outline, and the girl’s pale, worn face 


428 


The wattersons. 


and slow, languid movements, and the truth-burst in full 
upon her. It may seem strange that Rosie’s condition 
should so long have escaped her mother, but as all the world 
knows, those nearest to such a secret, are the very last to 
suspect its presence. With all her hatred and jealousy of 
the girl, it had never entered Mrs. Rosewood’s mind to sus- 
pect her chastity. She stood horrified, and for a full min- 
ute she watched the unconscious girl until Rosie, looking 
up, surprised at her mother’s continued silence, beheld her 
standing there, and she knew then that her secret was dis- 
covered. 

''Rosie!” said Mrs. Rosewood, in an awful voice. 

"Mama !” gasped the girl, and fell swooning to the 
floor. 

She had so long lived in anticipation of just this mo- 
ment, and had so often pictured her mother’s surprise and 
anger, that its coming frightened her out of her senses. 
Mrs. Rosewood rushed into the kitchen in a kind of frenzy, 
and fell to beating the unconscious girl as she lay, screaming 
in her fury. 

"Is this what is ailing you? Oh, you little devil! Oh, 
you hypocrite ! This is what is troubling you, eh ? This 
is why your fine lover left you. He has ruined you, you 
hussy. I’ll tear your eyes out for disgracing me. Oh, you 
devil !” 

She went on, shrieking thus in her rage and raining 
blows down upon the unconscious girl’s face and body. Then 
she began to weep aloud, throwing herself into a chair, cry- 
ing out that she was disgraced. Rosie opened her eyes after 
a while and rose upon her knees. 

"Mama ! Mama !” was all that she could say. 

"Get away, you devil,” cried her mother. "Don’t touch 
me. I hate you. Oh, I always knew you would come to 
this. But if you think you’re going to disgrace me, you’re 
mistaken. Come. You can go to your lover. Come.” 

She caught the terrified girl by the arm and dragged 
her to her feet, and half pushing, half dragging her to the 
side door, she thrust her out upon the little verandah and 
closed and locked the door upon her, screaming: "Go to 
your fine lover. Go !” 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS DRIVEN FORTH. 429 

Rosie, sank down, half relieved, half frightened at the 
darkness around her. The poor child had wept so much 
during the past few weeks that she had no tears left now to 
shed. She could only moan and sigh and wring her hands. 
She sat for a long time not daring to move. The night was 
very chilly. Rosie had neither hat nor cloak, but clad in a 
thin wrapper and an apron, she was soon chilled through 
and through. Animated by desperation, she arose and tim- 
idly tried the door. It was locked. She tapped gently, but 
received no answer. 

‘'Mama ! Mama she called, but silence only answered 
her. She repeated the call in louder tones with no better 
results; then, becoming frightened, she beat upon the door 
with her hands and rattled the handle, calling upon her 
mother with frantic violence. Not a sound came from 
within. 

“Oh, God! it is not possible that she means to leave 
me out here all night said Rosie, sobbing. 

She renewed her efforts on the door, crying out that she 
was cold ; but in vain, and throwing herself upon the 
verandah, she moaned piteously. 

“Oh, God! I wish I could die. I wish I could die.’’ 

Her hand went to her bosom where she usually carried 
a small phial of dark brown liquid, but it was not there. 
She had left it in her chamber. She remembered now. It 
was placed conspicuously upon the stand beside her little 
bed. Oh, why had she not kept it by her ? She took off her 
apron and wrapped it about her head and shoulders and 
lay down. But not for long. Chilled to the bone, she 
started up and fell upon the door in a frenzy, beating it with 
her little hands until they were bruised and bleeding. But 
all in vain. She continued thus alternately casting herself 
down upon the floor and rising to throw herself upon the 
door for a long time — hours it seemed to the poor distracted 
girl. 

At last, almost mad with fear and cold, she began to 
walk, first to and fro, to and fro, upon the narrow verandah, 
then upon the walk, and for a time she succeeded in keep- 
ing warm thus. But even that did not answer for long. She 
had another life to protect besides her own, and the preying 


430 


J 

THE WATTERSONS. 

thought of spending the entire night thus in the. open, with 
nowhere to hide when morning came, really drove her out 
of her senses, so that without knowing what she did, she 
rushed into the street and almost running, hastened in that 
direction which led away from town. But one thought filled 
her childish mind. Her mother hating her had driven her 
out of her home, she would go to those who, loving her, 
would take her in. The one who loved her most was the 
General, and with the General was Mam Sue who wor- 
shipped her. She hastened with all her might towards the 
General’s house. 

It was very late then. The electric lights which were 
promptly extinguished at midnight were out. The town 
was wrapped in total darkness. She met no one, not even 
the policeman who was supposed to patrol that part of the 
town. Her step grew slower after a time, for not only was 
she burdened with another little life, which made walking 
very hard, but returning warmth of body brought new 
thoughts, new fears, new terrors to her mind. What would 
the General say, seeing her? What would he say when he 
knew? Oh, if she could but die! Her step slackened, but 
did not wholly cease. Where could she turn, if not to the 
General ? Aunt Sadie, she knew, would take her in, but oh, 
she could not face Aunt Sadie I She walked on slowly until, 
driven by the cold, she resumed her rapid pace again. It 
was very dark. She heard dogs barking around her, cocks 
crowing even as she neared the outskirts of the town. No 
doubt morning was near at hand. She groped her way to 
the gate and went into the yard, her step dragging as she 
went up the wide walk between the clumps of shrubbery. 
Should she knock at the door and rouse the good General? 
She went up the steps to the verandah. With her hand 
raised to knock, she paused, and for a long time she stood, 
hesitating between her terror of the night and the shame of 
facing the General. She heard a sound within as of someone 
moving about, and crouched down beside the door, 
trembling. It was only Carlo. She heard him sniffing sus- 
piciously. She crouched low, shrinking into a corner. Her 
hands came in contact with a rug which Mam Sue had hung 
out to air. Quite forgetting her sorrow in the glee awak- 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS DRIVEN FORTH. 43 1 

ened by this opportune discovery, she laughed softly and 
crouching down in a corner of the wide verandah, she drew 
the rug around her, telling herself that she would not dis- 
turb the good General but would wait for morning. 

Curling up into the smallest possible compass, and shel- 
tered in a measure from the frosty night air by the railing 
and the rug, she became quite warm and remained so. And 
gradually as she lay there, trembling like a poor frightened 
hare, her weariness of body began to assert itself and she 
fell Jnto a fitful sleep. 

When Rosie awoke it was broad daylight. She opened 
her eyes and gazed around in deep astonishment. Carlo 
was dancing about, barking joyously and growling in deep 
delight, as he playfully shook the rug which he had dragged 
from ofif the sleeping girl. Above her bent the horror- 
stricken countenance of the General. For one moment Rosie 
lay gazing up at him with an expression of utter bewilder- 
ment, then all suddenly she started up into a crouching 
position, covering her face with her hands. 

‘'Rosie ! Dimples !” the General cried, in a shaking 
voice. “How long have you been here, child?'’ 

“Don't look at me. General !" she gasped out, shivering 
and sobbing wildly. “Please, please, don't look at me. I 
am bad ! Oh, if I could only die !" 

“Don't cry so, Rosie," said the General, in a gentle 
voice. “How long have you been here, child?" 

“Oh, ever so long — all night nearly. Mama drove me 
out in the night, and I came here. I — I didn't know where 
to go. It was cold, so cold ! I thought I would die. Please 
don't send me away. General !" 

She crouched at his feet a piteous figure. Carlo had 
become very quiet now. He licked the poor child's hands, 
glancing from her face to that of his master, with a look 
of supplication. Rosie threw her arms around the big 
dog's neck, and buried her face in his long hair. 

“Come, Dimples," said the General. “This is no place 
fo' you. Come." 

He took her hand in his and led the shamefaced girl 
into the house where Mam Sue met them, staring. 


432 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Missy Rosie cried Mam Sue, in great astonishment. 

Rosie ran to her and hid her face in Mam Sue's broad 
bosom. The General sat down in his arm chair, too grief- 
stricken to speak. 

"Take her upstairs. Mam Sue," he said after a while. 
"Give her Master Sherman’s room. She will stay with us." 

"Stay wif us. Mas’ Dave !’’ cried Mam Sue. 

"Yes ; she will tell you why." 

The General sat for a long time in deep abstraction, 
stroking handsome Carlo’s head to the dog’s great satisfac- 
tion. That Rosie, his little pet, "Dimples," as he had fondly 
called her, should be brought so low ! It did not seem pos- 
sible that the shamed, bedraggled woman above stairs could 
be the innocent little girl he had known and loved. How 
shy she had been, how modest, how sweetly innocent of all 
wrong. Good God ! who could have wrought this ruin ? 
What base villain had done this awful thing? He started 
up with a blood-curdling oath. It was young Marblemore. 
It could be no other. 

"I’ll make him marry her," he cried, striding through 
the room, hot with anger. "He shall do justice to Little 
Dimples or he’ll ans’wa’ to me with his life !" 

Mam Sue came down from above stairs, rocking herself 
in the deepest grief. 

"Oh, Marse Dave, oh, Marse Dave!" she cried, "dat 
po’ chile am done spoiled, sah. Oh, Lawd God! wha’ man 
so mean as to ha’m that po’ innocent lamb?" 

"How is she. Mam Sue?" 

"In a fevah, sah," replied the old negress with stream- 
ing eyes. "She’s out in de col’ all night, Marse Dave, all 
de libin’ night, sah. She’s col’ den hot, den col’ again. We 
must get a doctah, sah." 

"I’ll see to it. I would like to speak to her. Can she 
see me now?" 

"Yes, Marse Dave. Oh, Lawd God! Ah’ll tell her, 
Marse Dave." 

She hurried upstairs, the General following more 
slowly. 

"Tell him, please not," he heard Rosie say. 

But he went in nevertheless. Rosie was in bed, alter- 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS DRIVEN FORTH. 433 

nately freezing and burning up in a fever, as Mam Sue 
had said. 

She could not meet the General’s eyes. Her shame 
filled him with compassion. 

''Rosie,” he said slowly and gravely; "who is responsi- 
ble fo’ this?” 

Rosie opened her eyes and gazed beseechingly into the 
General’s stern face, but did not reply. 

"Is it Elmer — young Ma’blemo’?” 

Her hands went up to her face once more. She nodded 
once. 

"Then, by God ! he shall answa’ to me !” 

"General!” cried Rosie, starting up in bed, terrified 
almost out of her senses by his savage tone and fierce expres- 
sion of countenance. 

"He must marry you, Rosie,” the General said, sternly ; 
"and at once.” 

"He promised me. General,” Rosie cried out eagerly; 
"but he couldn’t. His father wouldn’t let him. He sent him 
away. He could not help it. General. His father is hard 
and cruel to him. He often said so. He would have kept 
his promise if he could.” 

"My po’ child,” said the old man compassionately. 

Bidding Mam Sue keep everything quiet, the General 
went away. 

The clouds had disappeared with the dawn and the 
sun was an hour high in the heavens. The air was still quite 
chilly, however, and the General shuddered with horror, 
and struck the ground with his stick in a fury, as he thought 
of that poor child burdened as she was and bowed with 
shame, spending the long hours of the night in that frosty 
atmosphere. 

The Wattersons were still at breakfast. They were 
much astonished at seeing their old friend at that early 
hour. Aunt Sadie reading something in his grave, sorrow- 
ful look, cried : "What is it. General ?” 

She came up to him in her sweet, womanly way, thinks 
ing that something was amiss with himself. 

"Wait, Mistress Sadie,” said the General, taking her 
hand in his. 


434 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Aunt Sadie sat down, knowing that he must be tired, 
and that until she did so, the gallant old man would not 
avail himself of the chair she offered him. 

''Something has happened. General?’’ said x\unt Sadie, 
breathlessly. Mr. Watterson and Myrtle were looking on 
in great suspense. 

"Madam, Little Dimples is — not well.” i 

"Not well !” cried Aunt Sadie. 

"Oh, I knew it,” cried Myrtle, starting up. I 

"Listen, Madam, this mo’ning I found her lying on my 
do’step. She spent the night in wande’ing the streets and 
is now in a high fever. Her mothah drove her from her ! 
house.” 

"Dear God!” cried Aunt Sadie, horrified. 

"Surely, surely. General — ” began Mr. Watterson. 

"But why. General ?” asked Myrtle, clasping her hands. 
"What has Rosie done?” 

"She has been wronged by a scoundrel. She is about i 
to become a mothah.” i 

Aunt Sadie and Myrtle gazed at each other in speech^ 
less horror. The thing was impossible, unbelievable ! Rosie, 
sweet, innocent little Rosie wronged, about to become a 
mother ! But the General’s sorrowful face was not to be 
doubted. 

"Who has done this terrible thing?” asked Mr. Wat- 
terson. 

"Who but that Ma’blemo’ brat?” cried the General. 
"Oh, what a senseless idiot I was ! To see him with her 
and not to strike him down ! But who would have thought 
that he would have dared touch that innocent child? And 
yet I knew him — knew what he was, and I let him go on !” 

Not the least part of his rage and shame lay in the 
knowledge that he had himself encouraged the young man 
in his villainy. He had smiled upon him, calling him a dash- 
ing blade, a roving young blood, admiring the youth’s dash 
and daring, and laughing at his depravity ; and it had ended 
in this ! His innocent little pet, the child he had loved, was 
torn and mangled by the wolf whose deeds he had ap- 
plauded ! 


IN WHICH ROSIE IS DRIVEN FORTH. 435 

‘^She was so innocent/’ he said, with tears in his eyes, 
''so modest and pure !” 

Aunt Sadie sat silent, with tears running down her 
cheeks and plashing upon her hands. Myrtle had thrown 
her arms around her aunt’s neck and was weeping as if 
her heart would break. Mr. Watterson was striding through 
the room with giant strides, his great hands opening and 
closing convulsively. 

"And this woman,” continued the General, "who calls 
herself this po’ child’s mothah, who should have stood by 
her and shielded her in this hour of sorrow and desolation 
— she drives her into the streets at midnight! The child 
came to me, and she is now at my house wha’h she shall 
stay until I fo’ce this villain to do her justice. It is neces- 
sary that she have medical attendance, and also kind and 
skillful nu’ses. Will you go to her. Mistress Sadie? The 
child needs you. Good women, I know,” he added, bitterly 
"are disposed to draw tha’h skirts aside from such as she has 
become; but you. Madam, are not of these. Will you go? ” 

"Surely, General,” said Aunt Sadie. "I will go at once.” 

The General bent down and kissed her hand, then 
reached for his hat and stick. 

"I shall call upon Mr. Ma’blemo’,” he said, "and learn of 
him wha’h this young man may be found, and also learn if he 
is disposed to fo’ce his son to do justice to this wronged girl.” 

"Hold, General !” cried Mr. Watterson, stretching forth 
his hand. "Let that mission be mine. Your interference 
will only awaken Mr. Marblemore’s anger. He will not 
listen to your plea.” 

"Majah,” replied the General, hotly, "I do not go to 
plead, but to demand. This child has placed herself under 
my protection, suh, and I shall see that her wrong is 
righted.” 

And with that he shouldered his stick and marched out. 
I Aunt Sadie, hastening up-stairs to make her prepara- 

I tions, came down after a brief absence, dressed for the 
I street. Myrtle, who was sitting weeping near her father, 
I begged her to wait for her, but Aunt Sadie would not. 
i "Wait until later. Myrtle. Your presence would only 

1 shame her more.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


IN WHICH GENERAL HAMILTON MEETS MR. MARBLEMORE. 

Mrs. Marblemore, looking extraordinarily fresh and 
plump and youthful, came softly into the small breakfast 
room where sat her husband, so deeply absorbed in a news- 
paper, that he failed to notice her entrance. Smiling mer- 
rily she surveyed herself in a large mirror, and with both 
plump, white hands patted her shimmering hair in place. 
She wore a pretty morning gown of a pale blue tint, 
trimmed with flowing lace, which set off her matronly form 
to much advantage. Mary was one of those fortunate 
women who mature slowly, and are more beautiful at forty 
than at twenty. She recalled with a smile her appearance at 
the latter age, her thin face and large, questioning eyes, her 
scraggy figure, which she had thought beautiful, and her 
awkward movements, which at the time had seemed to her 
the personification of grace. At twenty-five her figure had 
barely obtained its full development, . and for some years 
afterwards, she had held her own with women much 
younger; but of late years she had experienced considerable 
difficulty in keeping her figure within bounds. She had 
succeeded thus far mainly by a rigorous practice of self- 
denial. She was not fond of exercising, but she would go 
for days with barely enough food for a canary, and remain 
cheerful and fresh colored. 

She examined herself now and was rejoiced to note 
a distinct decline. Noiselessly approaching her husband, 
she softly placed her hands over his eyes and cried : 

‘Who is it?” 

He caught her hands and kissed them, and drawing 
them down so that her arms encircled his neck, he looked 
smiling up into her shining eyes. Clara coming into the 
room at this moment caught them in this lover-like attitude, 
and smiled in humorous appreciation. 

“Shall I run away and play, like a good little girl?” 
she cried merrily. 


GENERAL HAMILTON MEETS MR. MARBLEMORE. 437 

Mary blushed crimson, but the banker only laughed. 

''Nonsense, Clara, we were only talking secrets,’' he 
cried. "But come,” he added, rising briskly, "isn’t break- 
fast ready yet?” 

Mary exchanged a kiss with her stepdaughter, who 
though she laughed, embraced her mother with warm afifec- 
tion. They gathered around the table which was now all 
set forth with the morning meal. Mr. Marblemore, looking 
supremely happy and jovial, plunged at once into a lively 
account of political conditions, as reported in the newspaper. 
And, indeed, ma:tters were rife with interest. The Repub- 
licans at St. Louis in convention assembled, had nominated 
McKinley, of Ohio, for President, and Bryan, at Chicago, 
had swept the Democratic Convention off its feet by the 
might of his wonderful eloquence, and had been chosen the 
standard bearer of the Democratic party. And the battle 
was now raging. Locally the leaders were still at dagger’s 
drawn though, curiously enough, the Illinois delegation to 
the Republican National Convention had acted harmoni- 
ously throughout. 

"It’ll be a Republican landslide,” said the banker. 
"Everything points that way. Cleveland has killed the 
Democratic party for years to come. And now comes Bryan 
with his sixteen-to-one,” he continued, chuckling. "Mc- 
Kinley ’ll win in a walk.” 

The talk drifted to other matters of current interest. 
The women were not much interested in politics, but in 
business, ever since Elmer’s plunge into affairs, Mrs. Mar- 
blemore was deeply interested. She asked about Elmer now. 

"The boy is doing well, Mary,” replied Mr. Marble- 
more, beaming across at his wife. "Davidson writes me 
that he takes a deep interest in the work, and that he has 
rendered much assistance in the way of valuable suggestions. 
We have a right to be proud of the boy.” 

Mary smiled, glancing at Clara’s downcast eyes and 
indifferent mien. 

"I am glad that he is becoming so settled. Who knows 
what may happen if Clara receives him kindly upon his 
return ?” 


438 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Do not count on me, Mama,’’ said Clara, shaking her 
head with a frown. 

"It would make us very happy, Clara,” said her father. 

"Would it. Papa?” she replied, thoughtfully. "How- | 
ever, there is no use thinking of it,” she added, again shak- 
ing her head. j 

"Is there anyone else, Clara ? Is there any other young 
man whom you favor?” 

"No, Papa. They are all alike indifferent to me.” : 

"Now that is not natural, Clara,” said the banker, 
glancing at his wife. She gave him a look of warning and 
slightly shook her head. 

"Is the business on which Davidson and Elmer are 
engaged, in any way connected with that which took you 
East, Andrew?” asked Mrs. Marblemore. 

"Not at all, Mary,” he replied, delighted with the in- 
terest she showed in his affairs. "My business has to do 
with railroads; that upon which Davidson is engaged — but 
perhaps you would not care to hear of it in detail, Mary?” 

"Indeed, yes, Andrew. I am eager to know in what 
way Elmer has distinguished himself.” 

"Well, Mary, I am trying to consolidate all the banks 
of the Middle West into one immense whole. If successful, 
the thing will, of course, spread and cover the entire country, 
so that from a central institution, situated in New York, 
say, or in Chicago, or perhaps Washington, the circulating 
medium of the nation will be controlled by one gigantic 
combine. You cannot comprehend, my dear,” continued 
the banker, starting up in great enthusiasm, "what an im- 
mense power a man at the head of such a combine will 
wield! Why, the country will practically be at his mercy. 
Railroads, monopolies, trusts, businesses of all kinds — the 
entire commerce, nationally and internationally, will go or 
cease to go at the word of the man who controls the me- 
dium of exchange that keeps in motion vast enterprises as 
well as petty barterings.” 

Mary gazed at her husband in speechless admiration. 
Clara, roused out of her listlessness, clapped her hands. 

"Your schemes are vast, Andrew,” said Mary. 

"Yes, Mary, and many,” he said, with a laugh, "so 


GENERAL HAMILTON MEETS MR. MARBLEMORE. 439 

many, in fact, that I hardly know them all. Twenty years 
ago I thought that by acquiring a farm under mortgage I 
was doing wonders; ten years ago, if by successfully float- 
ing a stock company, I turned ten thousand dollars I re- 
garded myself as a marvel of shrewdness ; a year ago I fan- 
cied that by thwarting a large lumber combine and gaining 
control of it, and combining it with other interests in the 
building line, I would have reached the utmost heights to 
which I dared aspire ; six months ago I thought by merging 
three railroads in which I had acquired a controlling in- 
terest, I would be doing something really great; but all 
this, Mary, is as nothing compared to the scheme upon 
which I have not only Davidson and Elmer, but a score of 
trusted lieutenants at work. This country is vast, my dear, 
its men are either giants or pigmies, and in business one 
must range one's self with one or the other — be a man or 
a mouse. I am a man among men, and in a few years, if 
my plans carry aright, I will be above them all." 

''And what is my poor Elmer’s share in all this ?’’ asked 
Mrs. Marblemore, smiling. 

"Why," replied the banker, laughing, "the rogue is 
really of much assistance to Davidson. Davidson, you must 
know, is sounding the big men. He does not bother with 
the smaller fry. He visits the larger cities only-^Chicago — 
St. Louis — Indianapolis — Cleveland — Cincinnati, the large 
and bustling centers, and he assures me that the boy has once 
or twice by his quick wit and eager eloquence overcome 
objections advanced against the thing by men of weight. 
But what is this?" 

I A servant entered, bearing a card on a tray. Mr. Mar- 
i blemore took it up and read: 


David C. Hamilton 

Late Brig -Gen., C. S. A. 


"General Hamilton !" cried the banker, starting up 
again, "where is he?" 


440 


THE WATTERSONS. 


In the small reception room, adjoining. With an in- 
voluntary tightening around the mouth, the banker turned 
instantly to the door and burst into, rather than entered the 
room where the General awaited him. The banker wore a 
rather shabby dressing-gown, loosely corded across his 
breast, which lent his burly form a rather grotesque look. 
General Hamilton stood in the middle of the room erect, 
stiff and dignified. His broad-brimmed hat and stout walk- 
ing stick he had placed upon a convenient table and, with 
his hand placed lightly upon his hip, he stood in the most 
uncompromising attitude possible, confronting the scowl- 
ing banker. 

''To what, sir, am I indebted for this visit?” said, or 
rather snarled, Mr. Marblemore. 

"To yo’ son’s infu’nal villainy, suh,” replied the General, 
violently. "Mr. Ma’blemo’,” he continued, more quietly, 
"this mo’ning I found a girl, a po’ ruined, desu’ted creatcha, 
lying an outcast in my yard. She is the victim of yo’ brat’s 
pu’fidy, suh. He seduced Little Dimples. You know the 
girl, suh — Rose Rosewood, daughter of Captain Rosewood’s 
widow. He seduced her, suh, robbed her of her honah, 
ruined her, then fled, the cowa’dly whelp, leaving the po’ 
child to ba’h the shame, the sco’n, and the contumely of the 
world alone.” 

In the expression of Mr. Marblemore’s face, shame and 
sorrow held equal sway with anger and astonishment. 

"Elmer seduced her !” he said, pressing his hand to his 
high, bald forehead, "ruined little Rosie ! The infernal 
scoundrel ! Mary, come here.” 

He opened the door behind him, in hot anger, calling 
upon his wife, who came in pale and trembling in vague 
alarm and terror. 

"What is it, Andrew?” she said, breathlessly. 

"Elmer — he — ” the words choked in his throat. He 
threw himself into an arm-chair, choking and spluttering, 
waving her to the General. 

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Ma’blemo’,” said the General, 
bowing, and speaking in a very gentle voice, "to be the un- 
happy means of carrying sorrow to yo’ ha’ht, but yo’ must 
lu’hn the truth sooner or later, and it is best impa’ted by me 


GENERAL HAMILTON MEETS MR. MARBLEMORE. 44I 

than by anothah. Try to bear patiently with what I have 
to say.'' 

She looked at him very earnestly, but said nothing in 
reply. He pushed forward an arm-chair into which she 
sank with clasped hands. 

‘'With yo' kind pu'mission, Madam, I will proceed," 
said the General, bowing with more of ceremony than his 
wont. “Little Dimples — Rosie, whom you know, is dis- 
honohed, ruined by yo' son Elmer. The po' girl is about 
to become a mothah, and discovering her guilt, her mothah 
last night drove her from her do'hs. She came to me and 
she is in my house now, ill with an illness that may prove 
fatal to one in her condition, as a result of her night-long 
exposha' to the cold and damp." 

Mrs. Marblemore became very pale and pressed her 
hands to her heart, but she did not speak. 

“I came here this mo'ning," resumed the General, 
glancing at Mr. Marblemore, who sat there purpling with 
rage and shame, “to demand justice for this girl." 

“To demand justice," said Mr. Marblemore, half rising 
from his seat, but remaining bent forward supporting the 
weight of his body upon his large hands, which clutched 
the arms of the chair as he glared at the General. “To 
demand justice, sir," he repeated with emphasis on the 
word." 

“Yes, suh," said the General, sternly, “to demand jus- 
tice. This young man ruined Rosie under promise of mar- 
riage and he must fulfill his promise." 

“He mustr repeated the banker, rising slowly to his 
feet, and confronting the General, “and who are you, sir, 
to come into my house — mine ! with commands and exac- 
tions? Who are you, I say, sir? What have you to do 
with this affair? What concern is it of yours? Is Elmer 
your son? Is this young woman your daughter? Take 
yourself and your demands out of my house !" 

“Andrew! Andrew!" cried Mrs. Marblemore, ap- 
proaching him in terror. 

He turned to her, his anger in a measure subdued by 
her appealing voice, but a glance at the cold, contemptuous 
face of the General inflamed his fury again. 


442 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''You come to me with demands, sir — you — ” he said. 
"Leave my house instantly!’' 

"When you have ceased yo’ vapo’ings and mouthings, 
suh,” replied the General, coldly, "I will talk to you, but not 
befo’, fo’ in the sacred presence of Mrs. Ma’blemoV’ with 
a courtly bow to her, "I cannot answa’ them as they 
desu’ve.” 

"You may answer them or not, as you please,” cried the 
banker, hotly, "but in my house I am master, and I shall 
speak when and how I see fit, and I see fit to tell you now, 
sir, that your coming here with demands and exactions is 
the most consummate piece of impudence that has ever 
come under my observation. You have been my unrelent- 
ing enemy, sir, and for years have taken advantage of your 
opportunity to abuse and revile me, and this purely out of 
envy and malice, for I never, to my knowledge, did you 
harm. I never wittingly offended you in my life. You have 
called me vulgar, greedy, grasping, a thief, a robber, a cor- 
rupter, and a bribe-giver; say I am all this and more, what 
is it to you?” 

"If you have done, suh,” said the General, in the same 
chilling tone as before, "I would — ” 

"But I have not done,” roared the infuriated banker. 
"What ! Am I to be insulted in my own house, and by you 
from whom I have borne so much? You come to me with 
demands, saying: 'Your son shall marry this girl.’ Then I 
tell you, sir, that my son shall not marry this girl. I would 
have welcomed her a pure girl with open arms ; if she had 
come to me in her ruin, I would have forced him to take 
her in her shame; but I tell you, sir, now, that I would 
rather see him dead, and in hell, than married to this same 
young woman who has sought your protection in preference 
to mine!” 

He raised his fist on high and yelled forth the words 
with the utmost fury, standing within two feet of the Gen- 
eral, with his great purple face almost thrust into that of 
his enemy. The General did not stir, but his terrible eyes 
flashed, his whole frame quivered with anger, and his hands 
involuntarily closed around his stick which lay on the table 
beside him ; but even in the height of his passion, he remem- 


GENERAL HAMILTON MEETS MR. MARBLEMORE. 443 

bered Mrs. Marblemore’s presence and he stepped back 
with a bow — an involuntary apology for the thought of 
violence that had entered into his mind. Perhaps Mr. Mar- 
blemore never knew what he owed to Mary's imploring 
glance. 

say, sir, and I repeat," said the banker, speaking in 
quieter tones, ''that my son shall not marry this girl. Now 
what are you going to do about it?" 

He folded his arms across his burly chest and looked 
in vulgar triumph across at the General. What was he 
going to do about it ? What, in heaven’s name could he do ? 
There stood the villain’s mother, pale and trembling, her 
eyes overflowing with tears. 

"Say you sue him in the courts of law," continued the 
banker. "I will pay twenty — fifty — a hundred thousand 
dollars, if need be — but will that marry him to the girl? 
Say you heap abuse upon him, in your vile paper, will that 
win him to her? Say you assault him, will that redress 
her wrongs? Say you kill him in accordance with your 
Southern ideas of honor, how will it carry out your de- 
mands ? I repeat, sir, and I await an answer — what are you 
going to do about it?" 

The General’s face no longer expressed fierce resolu- 
' tion as at first. He still regarded the banker with a steady, 
j unwavering glance, but there was in it something that per- 
! haps had never blended in that fierce old man’s look before 
I — an acknowledgment of defeat and a plea for mercy. 

I "Mr. Ma’blemo’," he said, speaking slowly and with 
: difficulty, "it is true, as you say, that I can do nothing, either 
I to redress the wrong done to this little girl or to avenge 
I it. I am powe’less, fo’ on the one hand no man but you 
I can fo’ce this cowa’dly young man to do justice to Little 
I Dimples, and on the other hand, I would, by striking him, 
' wound and mayhap kill his mothah. I own, suh, that my 
demands wa’h inconsistent with my power, and thahfo’ 
absu’d, but, suh, you owe it to yo’ honoh to exert yo’ 
power in behalf of this outraged girl." 

"My honor, sir," said Mr. Marblemore, bitterly. "You 
have heretofore denied me that quality. Has anything oc- 
curred in the last half hour to alter your opinion of me? 


444 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Is Marblemore the thief, the robber, the corrupter, the bri- 
ber, really possessed of that delicate sense of honor as your 
words imply?’' 

The General with great difficulty controlled himself, 
but thinking of poor little Rosie and her impending fate, 
he did so. Perhaps looking down into the banker’s face, 
which, though distorted now with a sneer of vulgar triumph, 
had never looked so powerful — perhaps, I say, the grim 
old man regretted his relentless hatred and persecution. 

''Mr. Ma’blemo’,” he said, gravely. "Let us forget 
our enmity, our animosities and prejudices fo’ the moment 
and think only of this ruined girl and of the great wrong 
practiced upon her. In my public position as edito’ of a 
newspaper, I have in pu’forming my duty as critic on all 
matters touching upon the public welfa’h, often reflected 
upon you and the methods employed by you in obtaining a 
desired end. No doubt I have been severe. I was taught 
my profession in a school in which the blow of a bludgeon 
was held in higher esteem than honeyed insinuations which 
carry neither conviction to the mind of the reader nor terror 
to the ha’ht of the offender. What I have done is done. I 
have no apology to make fo’ it; fo’ those whom I have at- 
tacked know in tha’h secret ha’hts that I have been mo’ 
often right than wrong.” 

He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. He 
had spoken throughout in a gentler tone than was usual 
with him, but his manner was firm and his glance steady. 
Mr. Marblemore stood with his hand resting on the back of 
the chair in which his wife sat and the other bent upon his 
hip, smiling in the same triumphant way. 

"Go on, sir,” he said. "I like to hear you talk.” 

"A few months ago Little Dimples was innocent and 
happy,” resumed the General. "She had no troubles to 
worry her, no sorrows to grieve her, no cares of any kind. 
Every one who knew her loved her, because she was kind 
and gentle always, and in every wo’d and look and deed as 
pure and sweet and modest as a flower. She had many 
suitors among the young men of this city, and every right 
to look fo’wahd to happy wife and mothahhood, when this 
young man, yo’ son, suh, stepped in and with little difficulty 


GENERAL HAMILTON MEETS MR. MARBLEMORE. 445 

won her ha'ht. In a town such as this wha’h social lines 
are not closely drawn, she was in all respects his equal, and 
as a pure and innocent woman, imme’shably this young 
man’s superior. He won her rega’d, and under promise of 
marriage prevailed upon the innocent child to trust him. 
He wearied of her after a time and left her — fled, suh, leav- 
ing her to ba’h the sorrow, the suffering, and the shame 
alone. Now, suh, is not that a dastardly outrage?” 

^^Very sad, I must say,” commented the banker, iron- 
ically. ‘'Very sad indeed.” 

“This girl will soon become a mothah,” continued the 
General, flashing a murderous glance at the banker, and 
addressing himself now to Mrs. Marblemore, who sat with 
downcast eyes before him. “She is about to undergo the 
fearful pangs of childbu’th without experiencing those feel- 
ings of joy and happiness which make them mo’ than en- 
durable — welcome to honest wives ! It is in yo’ power to 
make her labor a joy, Mrs. Ma’blemo’ — Mary, fo’ our old 
friendship gives me the right at this awful moment to ad- 
dress you so. I appeal to you, Mary. You are a woman 
and a mothah; you can understand this po’ girl’s feelings. 
Think, Mary ! it is not only her womanhood which by yo’ 
refusal to stand ^her friend will be trampled in the mire, but 
that mothahood which is or should be sacred in the eyes 
of all God’s creatchas. Let yo’ son marry her and leave 
her with me then, so she will at least be an honest wife, and 
able to meet the eyes of her child.” 

He spoke with great eagerness and the earnestness of 
his soul lent the words an eloquent and persuasive quality 
which Mary for one could not resist. 

“General,” she cried, starting up, “if my pleadings 
can do anything, believe me, Elmer shall marry little Rosie !” 

“Thank you, Mary,” replied General Hamilton, bowing 
low, with his hand on his heart. “I expected nothing less 
from you.” \ 

“But I say again that he shall not marry her,” roared 
out the banker, glaring at the General. “Do you hear me, 
sir? He shall not marry this girl, I repeat. I am master 
in this house, and of all who dwell within it, and if my will 
is not obeyed, those who oppose it shall leave it ! That is 


446 


THE WATTERSONS. 


my last word. Now, sir, go! I have stood your insolence 
too long. You come here first with demands and then with 
pleadings, and beneath my very eyes try to turn my wife 
against me ! Go, sir, go ! or I shall forget myself — ’’ 

“Andrew ! Andrew !” cried Mary, rushing into his 
arms, as, with hands outstretched, he advanced upon the 
General, who without budging an inch, composedly awaited 
the threatened onslaught. 

“If Mistress Ma’blemo’ will retire,’’ began the General, 
as cold as ice. 

“But Mistress Marblemore will not retire,” roared her 
infuriated husband, disengaging her arms and drawing her 
aside, but with all imaginable gentleness. “Mistress Marble- 
more will in this, as in all things, do as I say, and not as you 
bid her.” 

“Mistress Ma’blemo’,” said the General, approaching 
her as she stood by her husband’s side, with one arm half 
around his neck, and resting against his shoulder, “I am 
sincerely sorry fo’ the violence occasioned by my visit here, 
which has distu’bed you so deeply. Believe me nothing but 
the ahdent hope of righting the great wrong done to this po’ 
child, whom I love as my own, could have induced me to 
cross this threshold, knowing that my coming would but 
provoke hostility and distu’b yo’ household. I thank you 
from my ha’ht fo’ the words you have spoken.” 

He bent over her hand once more, then took up his 
broad-brimmed hat and heavy stick, and stalked to the door. 
With his hand on the handle, he turned around, fixing the 
banker with a glance of flame. 

“Ma’blemo’,” he said, in a voice which vibrated with a 
passion truly murderous. “Yo’ co’se has fully bawne out 
my previous conception of yo’ foul character. As you value 
a sound head, suh, do not you again cross my path; or, as 
a heaven bends above us. I’ll strike yo’ to the ground ! ” 

The banker replied with a snarl, baring his big teeth in 
much the fashion of a bull dog uttering a savage defiance. 
The General brought his stick to a salute sword fashion, 
and turning strode from the room and from the house. 

His enemy gone, the banker strode through the room 


GENERAL HAMILTON MEETS MR. MARBLEMORE. 447 

a time or two, his brows bent in thought. Mary sat weep- 
ing silently. 

'^Mary — began the banker, when she interrupted him 
wildly — 

‘‘Oh, Andrew, it is all my fault — mine ! she cried, des- 
pairingly. “I — I warned little Rosie, and implored Elmer — 
but she was so sure of herself — and — and — Elmer assured 
me so solemnly that he meant her no wrong that — I — Oh, 
Andrew, he must marry her ! he must ! he must 

“Never!’’ the banker replied, in a voice which she knew 
to be final. “I am sorry for Rosie, and very angry with 
Elmer, but a marriage is out of the question. I cannot take 
into my family a girl so lost to all sense of decency and 
shame.” 

“She is young, Andrew, oh, so young !” pleaded Mary, 
approaching him in her eagerness, and with her hands em- 
bracing his arm as he stood half turned from her. “Andrew, 
be merciful! No one in this world can force Elmer to 
right this grievous wrong but you. Be kind, dear husband. 
She is but a child, and we women when we love are — so — 
weak ! So weak, Andrew !” 

But the banker was like iron. 

“Shall I place a premium upon unchastity?” he cried; 
“No ! this girl was weak enough to allow him to overcome 
her virtue, she must be strong enough to bear her shame. 
She is not worthy of the honest name of wife. But I shall 
find a way to punish Elmer. A scoundrel !” 

He bent down and kissed Mary, touched by her tears 
and woful face. 

“Don’t cry, Mary,” he said gently; “it is very hard I 
know, but it strikes me, too, for I love the boy, and my only 
fear now is that 1 cannot maintain anger against him. And 
I was so delighted with him this morning! Don’t cry 
Mary,” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


OF LITTLE ROSIE. 

Too impatient to await the phaeton, her usual convey- 
ance, Aunt Sadie hastened afoot to the General’s headquar- 
ters. She could walk very fast when she chose, and she 
chose now. People meeting the good lady and knowing 
her usual mission wondered much who the patient could be 
demanding such uncommon exertion. Mam Sue received 
her with many gutteral exclamations of sorrow and straight- 
way led her to the sick chamber. Rosie started up with a 
cry at Aunt Sadie’s entrance, then sank back again with 
a long convulsive shudder, moaning piteously. 

‘"Rosie,” said Aunt Sadie, softly, sitting down beside the 
bed. “Look at me, dear.” 

“No, no; I can’t, I can’t,” sobbed Rosie, covering her 
face with her hands. 

“Dear Rosie, it is only me, your old auntie.” 

“Please go ’way!” moaned the stricken girl. “Please, 
please, don’t look at me !” 

“Come, child, I am here to nurse you, and you must 
obey your nurse always. You are not well, my dear. You 
were out all night in the cold, the General told me. And so 
you must be taken care of, and I’ve come to take care of 
you until you get well and strong again.” 

Rosie became quieter by degrees, as Aunt Sadie talked 
in her gentle, caressing tones, telling of her surprise at the 
General’s early visit, and of her sorrow on learning of her* 
little pet’s sickness, and of her haste in coming, and of her 
determination to remain as nurse, until the fever should have 
been vanquished utterly. 

“Do you know, Auntie?” whispered Rosie, presently 
without looking up. 

“Yes, Rosie,” replied Aunt Sadie, quietly. 

Rosie’s wan cheeks burned like fire; she turned away, 
sobbing and trembling. 


OF LITTLE ROSIE. 


449 


''Rosie ! ’’ Aunt Sadie was kneeling now, bending over 
the little sufferer. Tears were streaming from her eyes; 
gently she kissed the child’s averted face. "Look at Auntie, 
dear.” 

She brought the shamed face around with a gentle hand 
and gazed down into the girl’s despairing eyes, with a gaze 
so tender and loving that Rosie cried out, and in a moment 
her arms were around Aunt Sadie’s neck, and she was pour- 
ing out her little heart, like a child in the arms of its mother. 

"Oh, I am so ashamed. Auntie ! ” she whispered brok- 
enly. "I shall die. ... I do not want to live. We 
were married like the lovers in the play. You remember, 
Auntie? . . . We weren’t really and truly married. 

. . . I loved him so. . . . It hurt me to be unkind 

to him. And he was so good to me, and loved me dearly, 
dearly! . . . His cruel father forbade him to call on 
me ; he said so. . . . He stayed away after a while, and 

I was so sick and frightened. Auntie. . . . Mama beat 

me. She hated me. She never did love me. Auntie. . . . 

Mama found it out, and last night . . . she drove me 

out into the cold, and she wouldn’t open the door, though 
I knocked ever so hard, and cried and cried. . . .It was 

cold. Auntie, so cold ! I thought I would die. ... I 
came to the good General’s, having no place to go. . . . 

I was afraid to call him, and so I stayed outside all night. 
. . . . Carlo found me this morning, and the good 

General took me in. . . . I’m glad you love me still. 

Auntie. I thought nobody would ever love me any more. 
The General frightened me so this morning. . . . H — he 
will hurt Elmer. You won’t — let — him — hurt — Elmer — 
Auntie ? ” 

"No, dear; the General shall not hurt him.” 

"Because he loves me. Auntie, really and truly,” con- 
tinued Rosie more coherently. "He’s good. He didn’t want 
to go away, but his father sent him. He said so. He hates 
me — his father does — and Clara; and his Mama told me 
ever so long ago not to love him. . . . He loves me. 

Auntie, and how could I help loving him and trusting him, 
when everything seemed so real in the play. . . . You 

saw it, Auntie? How they clasped hands and repeated the 


450 


THE WATTERSONS. 


marriage service, and how it was pronounced a real, true 
marriage. You remember. Auntie? And a long time after 
Elmer and I did just as the lovers in the play. . . . And 
you said it wasn’t a true marriage, because anything can 
happen in a play. And I was so frightened, and — and, oh, 
Em bad Auntie! You mustn’t love me ’cause I’m bad. 
Myrtle won't love me when she knows ! ” ( 

“Yes, Rosie. She wanted to come with me.” 

“Oh, don’t let her come, Auntie ! ” Rosie cried out in 
terror. “I should die of shame.” 

She broke into an incoherent account of what had 
transpired the night before. The light of fever was in her 
eyes. Aunt Sadie did what she could to relieve the little 
sufferer, who sank by degrees into a semi-conscious state, 
in which condition Doctor Fairfield found her. The doctor 
came in, accompanied by the General, and, nodding cor- 
dially to Aunt Sadie, fell at once to examining Rosie. The 
General went below stairs during the examination, and, 
sending Mam Sue to render any assistance possible, he went 
wandering restlessly about the yard, followed questioningly 
by Carlo. Aunt Sadie joined him presently. 

“The doctor fears that brain fever will develop,” she 
said, in answer to the General’s query. “Absolute quiet is 
necessary and skillful attendance. I shall stay, and Mam 
Sue shall help me.” 

The General told of his fruitless mission of the morn- 
ing and fiercely denounced the banker. 

“You can hardly blame Andrew, General,” said Aunt 
Sadie gently. “Few men would have acted otherwise. It 
is to Elmer we must look for righting this grievous wrong.” 

By night Rosie was wildly delirious. She babbled con- 
tinuously of the things that for so long had troubled her 
mind. Bursting now into childish cries of delight, now 
chuckling in ghastly merriment, or moaning and sighing i 
piteously, she passed the long night; and to Aunt Sadie 
sitting there, alert and anxious, and to General Hamilton, 
wandering in and out, was revealed the truth in all its 
horrible nakedness. In broken sentences, with heart-rend- 
ing sighs and moans, the girl went over and over the inci- 
dents of the night of her seduction, and vividly pictured to 


OF LITTLE ROSIE. 45 1 

her horror-stricken hearers the long and arduous struggle 
that preceded it. 

Now she was a pure girl, full of modest thoughts and 
girlish aspirations, burning with ardent hopes and dreams 
of happiness as Elmer's wife, tremblingly receiving his 
addresses, full of hope and pride and courage, and now 
hopeless, sad and disillusioned she fled from him as from 
one she feared, protesting with every breath against his 
pursuit, but with every breath betraying her passion and 
her weakness. She accompanied Elmer to the play, and 
once more went through the marriage ceremony as enacted 
upon the stage, laughing and protesting her disbelief all the 
time, yet more than half believing. Then her horror as the 
truth dawned in full upon her, her shame, her anguished 
pleadings with her faithless lover. Over and over again 
she wandered through these harrowing scenes, mingling 
thoughts of her friends with pleas to her lover and timid 
supplications ^to her mother. Her delirious cries fell pite- 
ously upon the ears of her compassionate auditor. Aunt 
Sadie was too grief-stricken to do aught but sigh and weep. 
The General's wrath was fearful to see. 

''Tell me. Madam ! " he said passionately, "does not 
this man desu've death ? " 

"Death, General, never righted a wrong in this world," 
replied Aunt Sadie gently. 

"But it avenges ! " said the fierce old man. 

"Vengeance should find no place in the heart of a brave 
man, dear friend." 

"Is nothing to be done? Nothing? " asked the General, 
gazing with tear-dimmed eyes down at the restless little 
sufiferer. "Is he jto be pu'mitted to go unscathed? " 

"It lies in the hands of God." 

"True," muttered the General with bitter irony. " 'Ven- 
geance is mine,' saith the Lo'd ! " 

"God does not avenge: He forgives." 

The General was silenced. Aunt Sadie, nearly heart- 
broken, sat down again and fell to crying softly. Elmer's 
unexampled villainy as revealed by the raving girl struck 
her to the heart, for she had loved this youth dearly, and 
even now recalled with wonder his goodness and manifold 


452 


THE WATTERSONS. 


graces as a child. She had never dreamed that he could 
be capable of wronging a living creature. 

“What would Aunt Sadie say/' murmured Rosie over 
and over again ; and Aunt Sadie, listening miserably, prayed 
to God for charity to forgive, but could find none in her 
heart. 

^^Oh, why, why, why did you not come to me?" she 
cried out once to the unconscious little victim. 

So passed the night. In the morning Mam Sue once 
more resumed the watch. Doctor Fairfield arrived early, 
and ere Apnt Sadie had gone Myrtle came. Aunt Sadie 
took Myrtle by the hand, and led her without a word to 
Rosie’s couch, and, holding up a finger to caution her not 
to speak, watched her grave face as she slowly gathered the 
meaning of Rosie’s delirious mutterings. 

^'But we are not married, Elmer,’’ Rosie giggled. 
^^Aunt Sadie says not. No, I didn’t tell her. . . . Our 

marriage isn’t true ! . . . She says anything can hap- 

pen in a play. Oh, I knew it at the time ! ’’ A pause. do, 
I do, oh, I do trust you, Elmer,’’ continued Rosie in changed 
tones. love you. Don’t say that, Elmer. You hurt me. 
I can’t help it. . . . It’s wrong, it is ! It is ! It is ! It’s 

bad ; it’s wicked. You must go away. Aunt Sadie wouldn’t 
love me any more if she knew ! ’’ Another pause. Aunt 
Sadie gazed at Myrtle through a blur of tears. Surprise, 
horror, anger and burning indignation struggled for mas- 
tery in the expression of Myrtle’s face. She clasped her 
Aunt convulsively, shuddering as from cold. ''Are we 
married, Elmer?’’ the murmur went on, ''really and truly 
married? Oh, I can’t believe it ! I know it was a true mar- 
riage in the play, but it seems so strange to be married like 
that. We’ll be married again, won’t we, Elmer, but not by 
Mr. Ringrose. . . . He looks at me so and — and — 

Mama is so hard on me. When shall we be married really 
and truly, Elmer?’’ Again a pause, and again the girl 
went on in tones of growing anguish. "Elmer ! Elmer ! 
you must marry me all over again. You must ! You must! 
I shall die if you don’t. I am your wife, though nobody will 
believe. . . . Didn’t we clasp hands and repeat the 

words like the lovers in the play? And their marriage was 


OF LITTLE ROSIE. 


453 


binding. It really was, although they were married again ! 

. . ,. God have mercy! He won’t come to me. Elmer! 

Mama ! ” 

Rosie gasped for breath, opening and closing her hands 
convulsively. 

‘‘Good God! Auntie, is this thing possible?” murmured 
Myrtle, who was quick to grasp the meaning underlying 
these broken sentences. 

But in all this blackness, this chaos unutterable, there 
was one beam of light that filled them all with gladness. 
Rosie was not as guilty as they had at first supposed. There 
had been a kind of ceremony between the lovers. Elmer 
had been utterly unable to overcome the girl, much as she 
had loved him, without it. Without doubt, Rosie had felt 
herself bound irrevocably to Elmer by that ceremony, even 
though she may have felt some doubts as to its truth in the 
eyes of the law. Morally she was his wife, and, believing 
this, she had trusted in him to right her in all minor points; 
but though he had failed her in this, though betrayed and 
deserted and left to live or die an outcast, she was before 
God his wife and an honest woman. 

The news of Rosie’s ruin spread with amazing rapidity. 
The name of h^r seducer was in every mouth, and the indig- 
nation was widespread among the young girl’s friends. 
Mrs. Rosewood found herself unpleasantly notorious. Her ^ 
action in driving her daughter from her house stirred the 
community to its depth. She was ignominiously ejected 
from the Clarenceburg Woman’s League by the indignant 
dames comprising that virtuous body. She was boycotted 
by all. Boys hooted her in the street, and her former friends 
and neighbors avoided her like a poisonous thing whose 
touch defiled. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 


IN WHICH THE WOMAN's PROGRESSIVE UNION PASSES A 
RESOLUTION. 

The Woman’s Progressive Union, of which Myrtle was 
the head and founder, met a few days later, and the attend- 
ance was unusually large; even Clara, who had not shown 
herself at the clubroom for many weeks, was present. The 
girls, with Rosie’s calamity fresh in mind, looked for the 
most part sad and depressed as they stood about in groups, 
whispering while awaiting the fall of the gavel which would 
call the meeting to order. Clara’s presence was oppressive 
to all, for not only was she not a general favorite, but her 
relationship to the man known to be Rosie’s seducer made 
the matter difficult of discussion; and Myrtle, in calling 
them together, had intimated a purpose of addressing them 
on this very subject. However, Myrtle was not one to be 
deterred from a duty which she felt to be Rosie’s due. 

‘"Girls,” she said, when, in answer to her call for order, 
they had gathered around the long table, “you all know 
of Rosie’s ruin and disgrace, but you do not know how 
really innocent she is, how guiltless of real wrong. With- 
out doubt, if the severity necessary in judging the sin of 
which Rosie is deemed guilty would admit of a close scru- 
tiny into the circumstances surrounding its commission, we 
would in most cases find that the woman is more sinned 
against than sinning; but this may not be. The princi- 
ple involved is so pure and holy that all that might be 
pleaded in extenuation of its slightest infraction is justly 
ignored in the uncompromising condemnation of an out- 
raged society. But not so in the case of Rosie. I do not 
say that she was guiltless of wrong; on the contrary, she 
was very weak and foolish to keep secret from her friends 
her relations with this man, but, girls, before God, Rosie is 
his wife.” 

A general cry went around the room at this, a cry 
expressive of incredulity, amazement and wonder. 


woman's progressive union resolution. 455 

^'She was not married by a minister, but she is none 
the less his wife,'’ continued Myrtle. 

She then gave a brief but comprehensive account of 
the deception practiced upon Rosie as revealed by the duped 
girl in her delirious ravings. The girls listened with breath- 
less interest. Many recalled the play in question, and de- 
clared their conviction even then that the fictitious marriage 
was binding. It had been so declared in the argument, and 
indeed the entire plot had revolved around it. 

''Such a marriage is, or was, legal and binding in cer- 
tain parts of Scotland, I believe,” said Myrtle, "and the 
scenes of this story were laid in that country. Rosie was 
married exactly as the lovers were married in the play, and 
though this marriage would be pronounced invalid in law, 
it is none the less true and sacred.” 

"What you say is the merest nonsense,” said Clara, ris- 
ing and confronting them all. She met the startled eyes 
turned in full upon her with a sneer of insolent scorn. 
"Rosie is every bit as bad as Elmer,” she continued, pro- 
nouncing the name with scornful emphasis. "She is worse. 
All she wanted was a pretext, and he gave it to her. She 
always was a little hypocrite, and I always hated her. You 
can’t make her out an angel,” she concluded, meeting 
Myrtle’s eyes with a glance full of animosity. 

"You mistake me, Clara,” said Myrtle, coloring pain- 
fully. "I am not trying to make her out an angel. We are 
none of us angels, heaven knows ! I expressly state her 
weakness in submitting in all things to this man, but I con- 
sider it only right and just to point out at the same time 
the moral strength underlying that weakness which enabled 
her to repulse him, forcing him at the last in pure despera- 
tion to resort to a subterfuge so nearly resembling lawful 
marriage that a girl so innocent and trusting as Rosie may 
well have accepted it as binding in law, as she truly did 
morally.” 

"Bah ! ” said Clara contemptuously. 

"Clara,” said Myrtle, with dignity, "you are not re- 
quired to accept another’s opinions, but until, in refuting 
them, you can advance something other than expressions 


456 


THE WATTERSONS. 


born of spite and illfeeling, I must request you to refrain 
from interrupting/' 

The rich red color in Clara's cheeks overspread her 
brow and neck, dyeing the whole an angry pink, as she once 
more rose to her feet. ''Myrtle," she said, in a voice of con- 
centrated fury, "I hate you. I despise you all. I am done 
with you." ^ 

And with these bitter words upon her lips she swept 
from the room. A deep silence followed. The girls looked 
at each other with awe, but their lips twitched, and they 
exchanged glances of droll amusement. Regard for Myrtle 
alone restrained a riotous demonstration of glee. Poor 
Myrtle sat in silent misery. The loss of Clara's friendship 
pained her exceedingly. She could not guess wherein she 
had failed her friend, but Clara's coldness and animosity, 
which culminated in this evening’s rupture, had been of long 
duration. 

"I am very, very sorry, girls," she said, looking around 
beseechingly. "I do not know what has come over Clara 
of late. She used to be so sweet and good-natured." 

"Don't mind. Myrtle," said Fanny, vigorously; "she's 
a good riddance. Everybody knows she hates Elmer." 

"Hush! dear; let us return to Rosie. I wished, my 
dears, to ask you to continue her friends, to go to her and 
show her that you still love her and esteem her an honest 
woman. He will be invited to all houses upon his return. 
He will mingle with virtuous women on terms of social 
intimacy. Rosie is ruined, irretrievably ruined in the eyes 
of the world. No matter what we know of the circum- 
stances, it will influence no one. We must remain her 
friends and by our friendship help her to start life anew. 
Let us show ourselves above that false sentiment which 
prompts women to draw aside their horrified skirts at sight 
of such as she has become. After all, are we so much better, 
purer, stronger than little Rosie? How many of us have 
been under temptation? Many a woman who looks with 
shuddering horror upon a fallen sister owes the preservation 
of her virtue to the upright character of the man she loved 
rather than to her own innate strength. Poor Rosie loved 
the wrong man." 


woman's progressive union resolution. 457 

make a motion," said Fanny, rising in her place, 
‘'that this body pass a resolution denouncing Elmer Marble- 
more as a villain." 

“But, Fanny, Fanny," cried Myrtle, aghast. 

Her feeble protest was drowned out and overwhelmed 
by a chorus of shrieks expressive of general approval. 

“Further," continued Fanny sturdily, “that we pledge 
ourselves to hold no social intercourse with this young man 
until he shall have repaired the wrong done our fellow-mem- 
ber in the only way in which it can be repaired — by marry- 
ing her again so that she may be really and truly his wife." 

A second chorus of shrieks eloquently attested the 
enthusiasm of Fanny's companions. 

“And, lastly," pursued Fanny, “that we pledge our- 
selves to cherish Rosie as our friend and to do all in our 
power to assist her to start life anew; this resolution to be 
published every day for four weeks in all the newspapers of 
the city." 

The tumult by this time had assumed such proportions 
that Fanny had, perforce, to sit down and cling tightly to 
her chair, for the girls, quite beside themselves with excite- 
ment, were crowding around her, shrieking like mad crea- 
tures, all bent on hugging her at once. Myrtle sat in deep 
dismay. However well qualified intellectually to head such 
a body in times of peace, she was far too timid by nature 
to lead in times of war; whereas a little madcap of scarce 
seventeen, as full of mischief as a monkey when all was 
serene, assumed the reins in troublous times like one to the 
manner born. 

“Myrtle," said Fanny, “draw up the resolution. You 
must, dear; no one can do it so well." 

“But, Fanny — girls — pray consider," cried Myrtle. In 
secret she was rejoicing with a great joy at this glorious 
demonstration of outraged womanhood, coming, as it did, 
from a body called into being by her and representing, if not 
her peculiar theories, at least the principles for which she 
stood. Nevertheless, she quaked inwardly. “Do not act 
rashly, girls," she pleaded weakly. 

“We are determined to make an example of this young 
man," said Fanny, resolutely. “We wish to show that the 


458 


THE WATTERSONS. 


outrage of which he is guilty cannot be perpetrated with 
impunity/^ 

“Wait, Fanny,’' said Grace Fairfield, a girl scarce older 
but more quiet and sedate than turbulent Fanny. “Myrtle 
never speaks without reason ; so let us hear what she has to 
say before acting.” 

“I hesitate partly because I fear that, after the first 
enthusiasm, you will repent.” 

“We shall never repent of befriending little Rosie,” 
cried Fanny, impetuously. 

“No, no, Fanny; but will such action on our part do 
this? Will it not, on the contrary, harden this young man 
against her ? ” 

“This is not a question of individual woman, but of 
our common womanhood,” cried Fanny, hotly. 

“Fanny is right. Myrtle,” said Grace gravely. “You 
are, of course, considering the question from the standpoint 
of Rosie alone, as Fanny began by doing, but it is a matter 
that concerns us all. I believe that such action as Fanny 
recommends is highly needful ; but in expressing our indig- 
nation against this man we must also and with equal em- 
phasis condemn the weakness of which Rosie was guilty — 
else it will look as if we were upholding her in the sin of 
which the world deems her guilty.” 

Myrtle beamed gratefully upon Grace, then turned her 
hopeful eyes upon Fanny. The light of battle was in 
Fanny’s eyes. She had in the first place taken the high 
ground of principle, and, in the second place, she would by 
no means allow that the world’s opinion of Rosie was worth 
considering. Rosie was innocent. She had without doubt 
thought herself married to Elmer. She had witnessed a 
play in which just such a marriage had been pronounced 
legal and binding, but to all this Grace demurred, dififering 
from both Fanny and Myrtle in this that she did not think 
any young woman of ordinary understanding could be de- 
ceived in that way. The question was discussed with great 
spirit. Grace stood almost alone, but she held her own 
nobly against Fanny’s cohorts. Myrtle took no part in it, 
but she listened with interest and waited with anxiety the 
outcome. Fanny was quick, brilliant and full of vivacity 










woman's progressive union resolution. 459 

and spirit. Grace was quiet, grave and reflective. She was 
naturally a gentle little creature, but she also was deeply 
religious, and having just attained the dignity of young 
ladyhood, her reflective bent of mind inclined her to 
severity. 

‘‘This young man had courted her for a long time,’' she 
said, “and she could not but have been aware of his dis- 
honorable designs upon her. Then why did she not turn 
from him ? ” 

“She loved him very dearly,” said Fanny, “and love, 
they say, weakens resolution.” 

“It should, on the contrary, strengthen it. I do not 
say,” continued Grace with a slight blush, “that she should 
have torn this love from her heart, that she should have 
given up this young man because he was not in all things 
worthy; but if she had borne herself with firmness and 
dignity, if from the outset she had demanded the respect 
which was her due, who can doubt that this young man 
would have respected her? And if his love for her had been 
founded on esteem, he would certainly have married her.” 

“You are too severe, Grace,” said Fanny. “It is much 
as Myrtle said in the beginning. Who can say what we 
would do under like circumstances ? ” 

“Fm afraid, Fanny, that you did not take Myrtle’s 
meaning. Those very words embodied all her censure. 
Myrtle’s opposition to the action we propose is founded 
partly on a fear that we may regret our precipitancy later, 
and partly upon her sense of responsibility, but chiefly, I 
imagine, upon some unacknowledged doubts that Rosie is 
much to blame in this matter. She is so tender of her 
friends, our dear Myrtle,” said Grace with an affectionate 
glance at her friend, “that she could not bear to say one 
word in censure of Rosie’s weakness without implying that 
under similar circumstances she herself might have been 
equally guilty ; which,” added Grace, shaking her head very 
sternly, “which is absurd. Myrtle, moreover, saw at once 
that we could not act in this matter without increasing 
Rosie’s burden of sorrow, but act we must, even though in 
striking at this man, we still further wound Rosie. Rosie is 
our friend, our sister; in despoiling her he has attacked us 


! 


460 


THE WATTERSONS. 


all, for our own future protection we must expose and 
punish him.” 

''Prepare the resolution, Myrtle,” cried Fanny. 

"The resolution ! the resolution ! ” came the cry from 
all sides. 

"Are you resolved ? ” 

"Yes, yes.” 

"We could without taking such action befriend little 
Rosie and ignore her seducer socially,” continued Myrtle, 
coaxingly. 

But on this point Grace joined forces with Fanny and 
utterly routed their timid leader. 

"Then — but do you write it, Grace. My pen would 
be sure to run away with me, and in place of a concise 
statement of our purpose I would produce a terrible treatise 
on the prevailing standard of the sexes.” 

"Grace may write it,” said Fanny, "but we will not 
admit one word of censure of little Rosie.” 

"Not a word,” cried Daisy, and the crowd shrieked its 
approval. 

"You mistake me, Fanny,” cried Grace with heat. "I 
do not wish to censure Rosie ; the poor thing has suffered . 
enough. Heaven knows ! I wish merely to make clear to 
the world our rigid and uncompromising adherence to the 
letter and spirit of the law given forth in the seventh com- 
mandment, so that our position may not be misconstrued : 
as an endorsement, as it were, of woman’s frailty.” 

"But who would be foolish enough to put such a con- 
struction upon an action which in its very nature declares j 
that very thing,” cried Fanny in disgust. , 

"It is as Grace says, Fanny,” said Myrtle hastily, in- ' 
terrupting what promised to be a lively tiff. "The world 
will judge from the conclusion purely without in the least I 
considering the premises, and our action may easily be ' 
twisted so as to give to it an appearance of toleration which 
we are far from feeling. But if we must take such action, — 
and indeed, indeed, girls — ” 

"We must, we must,” came the chorus. ^ 

"Then we can easily do so without attaching the ^ 
shadow of blame or censure to a girl whom we believe to be • ; 


woman's progressive union resolution. 461 

innocent or leaving an excuse for misconstruction. After 
all, it is not a question of Rosie’s innocence, but of this 
young man’s guilt. It is the principle of the thing. The 
best thing then, for us to do, my dears, is to confine our- 
selves to a simple statement of our purpose. The news- 
papers in publishing our resolution may be trusted to tell 
the story that called it forth. You, Fanny, shall head the 
committee that waits upon the editors.” 

She drew a sheet of paper towards her, and taking 
up a pen wrote rapidly for a few moments, during which 
the girls maintained a rigid silence as if they were attend- 
ing a solemn ceremony. 

''Listen, girls,” said Myrtle, when she had finished 
writing, and she read as follows : 

"Resolved — That, whereas, our friend and fellow mem- 
ber, Rosalind Rosewood^ has been cruelly betrayed by Elmer 
Marblemore, we, the members of the Woman’s Progressive 
Union, denounce the said Elmer Marblemore as a despoiler 
of homes and an enemy to virtuous womanhood, and here- 
with declare a social ban against him until he shall have 
repaired the wrong done our fellow member, by honorable 
marriage. We call upon all good men and women to uphold 
our hands in this and ask them to aid us in carrying the 
ban into efifect.” 

" "Good ! Good !” was the general cry. 

Eanny alone was dissatisfied. She wished to add a 
clause pledging the Union’s friendship to Rosie, but Myrtle 
cried out against this, and, aided by Grace and a few of the 
more grave and thoughtful, succeeded after much persuasive 
argument in quelling the riot with which Fanny’s obstinacy 
threatened them. 

"We can continue her friends, you know, Fanny,” 
urged Myrtle, "but we need not proclaim it from the house- 
tops.” 

Fanny yielded in the end, but not without candidly 
expressing her scorn of Myrtle’s cowardice. 

"Now, girls,” said Myrtle, when peace was restored, 
"before putting this resolution to a vote, which I anticipate 
will be unanimous, I would like to say a few words in 


462 


THE WATTERSONS. 


warning of the consequences likely to follow its publication. 
This action, you must know, will be a very serious departure 
and it may be far-reaching in its consequences. What we 
are proposing to do is practically a reversion of traditional 
practice. Hitherto, society in a sin of this kind has con- 
demned the woman utterly, while ignoring the criminality 
of her partner in guilt. In this, society has been only half 
wrong; both parties being equally guilty should have re-' 
ceived equal punishment; that is what we propose to do — 
punish the man by placing him beyond the pale of respect- 
able society as the woman by her very sin is placed, until he 
shall have redeemed the past in the manner pointed out 
in our Resolution. In taking this initiative step we are lay- 
ing ourselves open to severe criticism, the more especially 
as we are all unmarried women, conventionally supposed to 
know nothing about such things — or knowing them, are 
expected to assume the hypocritical mien of ignorance. I 
counsel you, therefore, to continue resolutely in the path 
laid out. We may be rash but we are right. Pay no atten- 
tion to adverse comment. Be brave and prudent. Do not 
talk, or if you must speak, be sure to make clear our 
position. Let no one think that we are upholding or en- 
dorsing or defending that in the woman which we condemn 
in the man.’’ 

This little speech as part of the solemn ceremony was 
received in absolute silence. The resolution was then put 
to a vote and passed unanimously. Committees were then 
appointed to wait upon the editors, the principal dames of 
the city, and lastly upon the Clarenceburg Woman’s League. 
Fanny was placed at the head of the first, Grace took charge 
of the second, and Myrtle, foreseeing considerable difficulty 
with the haughty dames comprising the elder body, under- 
took the leadership of the third in person. The three Com- 
mittees took in every girl belonging to the Club. 

''Go to Mrs. Butler first, Fanny,” said Myrtle, in giving 
her final instruction. "She does not fear Mr. Marblemore, 
and being a woman, is governed more by sentiment than 
business. Let her have her own way in everything and she 
will be sure to stand by us throughout the fight. The 
General we are sure of. It will perhaps do no harm to 


woman's progressive \jnion resolution. 463 

mention him casually to the editor of the Globe, should he 
show reluctance to open up his columns to us. Do you first 
of all go to Mrs. Marblemore, Grace; inform her of our 
purpose, but assure her of our dearest love and esteem. I 
will visit as many members of the League as possible before 
presenting myself before it as a body." 

The girls separated and went to their homes, quaking 
a little inwardly, no doubt, but firmly resolved to carry the 
thing through. For the next few days there was a lively 
skirmishing about. The townspeople stared rather to meet 
here and there with groups of ten or a dozen young women, 
all grave of countenance and seriously intent on the busi- 
ness in hand. On the evening of the third day, as a result 
of Fanny’s efforts, the Times published the story of Rosie’s 
seduction in full, and made public the action taken by the 
Woman’s Progressive Union in consequence, and Mrs. 
Butler, the intrepid editor of that enterprising journal, took 
occasion to warmly commend the young women whose 
names appeared one and all boldly signed to the Resolution. 
The Herald followed full cry after the Times, Even the 
Globe, which was said to be controlled by the great banker, 
did not dare to wholly ignore the matter, and to this small 
fire of musketry succeeded on Saturday the Chronicle s 
heavy artillery. 

The Clarenceburg Woman’s League, after some hesi- 
tation, due to Mrs. Delaware’s unwillingness to follow the 
initiative of its younger rival, gave ear to Myrtle’s earnest 
representations and endorsed the resolution by a clear ma- 
jority, thus at once stamping it with the seal of its weighty 
approval, and binding its members severally to act in 
earnest co-operation with the younger women; and finally, 
as a result of Grace’s endeavors, good women everywhere 
banded together, fully determined to carry the ban pro- 
nounced by the Union into effect. Men said little but 
thought much, and their thought resolved itself into a quiet 
determination to uphold their women at all hazards. 

The uproar for a time was prodigious. Out-of-town 
newspapers took the matter up and discussed it freely, and 
before long the metropolitan press, attracted as much by 
the prominent names involved as by the novelty of the sub- 


464 


THE WATTERSONS. 


ject, were printing columns about it. Myrtle was no less f 
astonished than delighted to observe that the tone of this J 
widespread comment was overwhelmingly in praise of the 
Union’s courageous action. She had been willing, as leader , 
of the Union, to take upon herself the responsibility of that 
body’s utterance, but seeing the turn matters had taken, : 
she promptly diverted the attention which was beginning 1 
to center around herself into its proper channel, and Fanny, 
the intrepid little pioneer, awoke one morning to find her- | 
self famous. Her frantic protests were all in vain ; she 
declared that Grace Fairfield and not she was the guilty 
wretch. Grace emphatically denied it, and as all the girls ‘ 
united in declaring Fanny the instigator of that momentous 
action, the glory rested finally with her. l 

Mr. Marblemore, immersed to the ears in business, 
paid little heed to the clamor around him. Mrs. Marble- 
more, as may be supposed, was deeply grieved and shocked 
by it all, but on the whole, she worried very little after the 
first surprise. Her interest now all centered in her husband 
whose business interests about this time compelled him to 
frequent and prolonged absences from home. Clara saw fit 
to assume an air of haughty reserve towards her former 
associates, and early in the fight she took occasion to write . 
to the newspapers, correcting them in their reports of an 
unanimous vote favoring the adoption of the now 1 
famous resolution. She defended Elmer everywhere, and 
spoke bitterly of Myrtle, whom, despite all contradictions, . 
she persisted in declaring the prime instigator of the move- : 
ment against Elmer. 

At the General’s headquarters, meanwhile, little Rosie ;f 
lay hovering between life and death, anxiously watched over 
by Aunt Sadie and the General. Eor weeks she lay, a piti- ; 
ful little figure, tossed and torn in the throes of an all-con- 
suming fever out of which she emerged at last, a mere . 
shadow, so weak and wan and wasted that the immortal 
spark all but fled its earthly abode. The little life she har- i 
bored went out ere she recovered consciousness, leaving 
her without an incentive to stimulate in her that love of life, 
which is an absolute essential to recovery. ■ 

Aunt Sadie became passionately attached to the patient i 


woman's progressive union resolution. 465 

little sufferer during those weeks of darkness and despair. 
As her strength slowly returned, many visitors came to see 
her. Myrtle, Fanny, Daisy and Grace Fairfield, in fact, 
all the girls from the Club called at the General's head- 
quarters, and all tried to show their unaltered regard and 
friendship. Rosie was deeply touched by their kindness, 
but to tell the truth, she would hardly have been less happy 
if they had stayed away. Their presence shamed her. She 
felt that in accepting their friendship, she was guilty of 
willful deception. They believed her wholly innocent and 
blameless, but deep in her heart there was an uneasy con- 
sciousness of guilt, and this feeling forbade her receiving 
the friendly advances made by these pure women in the 
spirit in which they were tendered. 

''Tell them I was bad. Auntie," she whispered once. 
"They think not. Auntie, but I was. I knew !" 

"Do not mind, Rosie," Aunt Sadie replied. 

"But they do not know. Auntie," the girl persisted. 
"They think I am good when I am not. I loved him so." 

Aunt Sadie did take measures to bar the chatterboxes 
from the sick room, thinking that their girlish gayety hurt 
the poor little sufferer. She did not fathom Rosie's real mo- 
tive for wishing to rid herself of these girls. She could not 
read the girl's heart, nor know how tenderly she cherished 
the memory of this man whom they hated so. Yes, she 
loved Elmer still ; loved him devotedly and entirely. There 
was no censure in her heart for him. She had long ago 
reasoned away every shadow of doubt. It was his cruel, 
hard-hearted father who had sent him away from her. He 
would have married her, he loved her dearly, and secretly 
she cherished the trembling hope that he would return to 
her. As time passed this hope became to her a certainty, 
an article of faith. She became very quiet when his name 
was mentioned in her presence. These girls, who so prided 
themselves upon the action they had taken against him, who 
openly spoke of him as of a moral leper — she hated them; 
they misjudged him; how could they know how dearly he 
had loved her? 

For he had loved her dearly, dearly. In her heart she 
cherished the memory of their parting; his gentleness, his 


466 


THE WATTERSONS. 


tender kisses, and kind speech ; in her bosom lay the note, 
the little farewell letter, in which he spoke of their re-imion 
and future happiness. And thinking of all this, little Rosie 
bitterly resented the attitude taken by her friends towards 
him. She confided her hopes to none save Mam Sue, who 
heartily concurred in all her little darling’s dreams and 
^ expectations. 

“Don't you think he’ll come back to me. Mam Sue?” 
Rosie would say a hundred times a day, smiling wanly from 
her pillows. 

“Indeedy, he’ll come back to mah honey. Indeedy he 
will,” Mam Sue would cry, with many energetic nods, and 
a scornful pursing of the lips, in token of bitter defiance of 
various imaginary disputants. “Don’ I know him, honey 
sweet? He can’t help it; he’s gotta come back to mah lily 
darlin’.” 

“He loves me. Mam Sue; he often said so. He was 
always good to me,” murmured Rosie. 

“Oh, if you only had lubed Massa Sher’m, now,” Mam 
Sue replied, blubbering. “Oh ! oh ! oh ! if you only had 
lubed Mas’ Sher’m. He’s good, Massa Sher’m is, honey.” 

“No, Mam Sue, no,” Rosie would reply, puckering her 
little forehead impatiently. “Sherman belongs to Myrtle. 
It is Elmer I love. How could I love Sherman when I love 
Elmer? Elmer’s good. It was his father that sent him 
away. Don’t I know?” 

“Yaas, honey, yaas, dearie,” said Mam Sue, soothingly. 
“He come back to my lily honey. Just yo’ wait. He ’um 
jes’ gotta’ come back. Yaas, honey, darlin’ !” 

“When he comes. Mam Sue,” whispered Rosie, brightly 
smiling, “don’t tell him I’m very sick. Carry me to my 
chair beside the window, and then bring him to me when 
everybody else has gone away. Nobody must know. Above 
all, don’t tell the General,” cautioned Rosie. 

“No, honey, neber! Cross ma heart! Gawd strike me 
dead to everlastin’ everlastin’ amen if Ah do ! ” promised 
Mam Sue, rolling her eyes. 

Aunt Sadie coming in unexpectedly one day found 
Rosie weeping sorely with her arms around the faithful 


woman’s progressive union resolution. 467 

black woman’s neck, and Mam Sue blubbering in stormy 
sympathy. 

''What is it, Rosie?” she asked, gently. 

"I was thinking. Auntie,” the girl replied, tremulously. 

"Of whom, my dear?” 

"Of Elmer !” burst out Rosie, suddenly, covering her 
face with her hands and sobbing wildly. "Oh, I love him. 
Auntie, and he loves me I know. See his letter to me, 
Auntie, his last letter, which Jacques brought to me when 
I he was sent away so suddenly.” She eagerly drew from her 
I bosom Elmer’s farewell note, which Aunt Sadie had care- 
fully guarded where she had found it upon the girl’s heart. 
"See, Auntie, he says: 'We shall be happy together yet, you 
! and I.’ Do you see. Auntie? And don’t you think he’ll 
come back to me?” 

Aunt Sadie was surprised and grieved to find the girl 
so deep in love, so strong of faith, in spite of all that had 
happened. 

"Oh, he loves me. Auntie,” cried Rosie, eagerly. "You 
should have seen how sweet, how gentle, he was with me 
the night before his father sent him away. Don’t you think 
he’ll come back. Auntie?” 

"Yes, Rosie, I do believe so,” said Aunt Sadie. 

"Oh my sweet Auntie !” cried Rosie, smiling raptur- 
ously. 

They spoke of him often after that, and in time Aunt 
Sadie came to assume a tone of hopeful cheerfulness that 
charmed Rosie and confirmed her in her faith. In very 
truth. Aunt Sadie could not bring herself to believe Elmer 
utterly bad. She had known him so long, had loved him so 
dearly; he was so sweet and gentle, that she could not but 
believe that if rightly approached, he would do justice to 
, Rosie. So she spoke cheerfully of his return, and awaited 
that event hopefully ; but as the weeks and months receded, 
and Rosie instead of becoming stronger, faded more and 
more, her ardent hope settled gradually into resigned de- 
spair, and she sadly reflected that her little friend was 
doomed to pay the final penalty of life to the love, which 
if rightly placed, would have borne fruit in happiness im- 
measurable. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


THE CONVENTION. 

As the time for holding the State Convention ap- 
proached, Dillingham’s strength, which had grown day by 
day through the summer, inspired the gravest fears in the 
breasts of Watterson’s adherents. Dick’s movements, his 
doings and sayings, his comings and goings, had now be- 
come a matter of wide importance. A genial fellow, full of 
quaint sayings, he was followed about wherever he went, 
and surrounded whatever he happened to be, by newspaper 
reporters and artists, who wrote him up and pictured him 
from every possible point of view. 

Watterson’s downfall was freely predicted, but curi- 
ously enough as this presentiment spread, the feeling 
against the big Boss began to change. Weighty editorials 
began to appear under such captions as : After Watterson, 
What?” ''The Coming Boss,” "The End of Watterson,” 
"Watterson and Dillingham,” and the like. The two fight- 
ing bosses were compared, their qualities reviewed, their 
characteristics analyzed, and by contrast with Dillingham, 
Watterson shone with the brightness of the noonday sun. 
The thing caught fire and spread. Democratic as well as 
Republican organs throughout the State made Watterson 
their principal theme. He was spoken of admiringly, eulo- 
gistically, by all, but always in the past tense. He was al- 
lowed to have possessed certain qualities of mind and heart 
which would be looked for in vain in his successor. 

"His personal integrity was undoubted,” said the Chi- 
cago Record, an independent newspaper of enormous cir- 
culation. 

"He never sold his influence for legislative purposes,” 
declared the Chicago Tribune, the leading Republican news- 
paper of the West, but the organization’s inveterate enemy. 

"His influence had always been for good: witness the 
Eorestry Bill which he defeai:ed,” cried the Bloomington 
Star. 


th£ convention. 469 

‘'He never sought political preferment/' conceded the 
Springfield Bulletin. 

“Watterson was a man, every inch of him," said the 
Chicago Courier. “A patriot who has served his country in 
the battlefield — a genius in organization — a statesman of 
real ability, who preferred to remain modestly in the back- 
ground and do his work through others. So long as our 
political system continues in its present imperfect state, so 
long will organization in politics be necessary, and under 
these conditions, men such as Watterson are not a curse, 
but a blessing. The power he has as leader of the domi- 
nant party arrogated to himself, he used, as is now univer- 
sally conceded, to further the interests of the great common 
people. Will his successor do the same? Wait and see!" 

“The organization which he founded was not conceived 
in a bar-room," hotly declared the Chicago Inter-Ocean, a 
staunchly Republican organ, and Watterson's warmest 
friend. “Its foundation was not laid in the rear room of a 
dive, to the tune of ribald laughter and swinish gurgling. 
It was begun in the small country town where he was born 
and reared, and where he now resides, an honored, beloved 
citizen. It was not made up of bums and loafers, the ragged 
and fagged ends of humanity, but of the best men of the 
grand old party, the first citizens of the State. Such men 
as Dillingham, Southgate, and others of that ilk, are relics 
of the old school of politics, the school of ruffianism, dis- 
honesty and fraud, now happily dead and gone." 

“When the roll of honor of this State is finally made 
up," tearfully asserted the Peoria Budget, “the name of 
Watterson will be found close to the top, with those of Lin- 
coln, Grant and Logan." 

And so on. There was no end to these dirges. So 
my reader, when your winding sheet is preparing. His Rev- 
erence will say his prettiest things over you, and your 
neighbors will repeat, and perhaps, believe them, but you are 
gone, and they and you are soon forgotten. 

“At last my Papa is receiving his due," said Myrtle, 
coming into Mr. Watterson's study one evening, jubilantly 
waving a newspaper. 


470 


THE WATTERSONS. 


^^Nonsense, my dear/’ he replied, smiling a little sadly. 
‘'They are singing my requiem.” 

“Will you tell me, Papa, why a fight like this among 
party leaders should afifect the vote of the rank and file? 
Because Dick has turned against you, must the voters in the 
district of which he is leader, vote against your candidate, 
and for Dick’s ? Surely Dick does not exercise such despotic 
authority over them as to absolutely control their votes?” ! 

“My dear, the thing will be decided in the Convention, ; 
long before the voters have a chance to express their choice.” ] 

“And will you win. Papa?” ; 

“Who can say? I believe so, however. I do not believe ’ 

in spite of appearances, that Dick is against me. He has, i 

in my opinion, concocted a scheme to oust Southgate. In 
order to deceive him, he had to simulate open enmity towards 
me.” 

“But Southgate is now at his mercy,” said Myrtle, 
shrewdly, “and he still continues hostile.” 

“I do not know what to make of it,” said Mr. Watter- 
son, in troubled tones. “However, I am taking no chances. 

I am prepared for whatever may come.” 

“Can you in no way account for Dick’s desertion, and 
the hostility of his confederates?” 

“They are all set against Sagamore,” said Mr. Watter- 
son, slowly, “and Sagamore is the organization’s choice 
for Governor.” 

“Is Mr. Sagamore’s attitude towards you quite — quite 
generous. Papa ?” 

“There is no generosity in politics, my child.” 

“Is he acting under your instructions?” 

“No, Myrtle. Mr. Sagamore is not a man to take in- 
structions of any man.” 

“Then,” said Myrtle, coloring indignantly, “he is not 
your friend.” 

“Hold, Myrtle,” cried her father. “Do not measure 
his personal friendship for me by the political attitude he 
assumes towards me. You must learn to distinguish be- 
tween the two things, my dear. Mr. Sagamore is very am- 
bitious; his position is a very difficult one. He must study 


THE CONVENTION. 47I 

conditions closely, and decide according to what he thinks 
most advantageous to himself and his political future.'' 

“Oh, Papa, how can you talk so calmly of such a cold- 
blooded proceeding? " cried Myrtle, as hot as fire. “He 
calls himself your friend, and in the days of your greatest 
power he profits by that friendship, but in a crisis, such as 
this, when a word from him would mean so much, he re- 
mains silent and assumes a neutral position, waiting to see 
which way the balance of power will swing, ere declaring 
himself. Oh, it is mean ; it is cowardly ; it is dishonorable 
in him!" 

“My dear little girl," began Mr. Watterson. 

“Pardon me. Papa, you cannot convince me otherwise. 
We look at matters from different points of view. I can- 
not rise to your lofty height, but mine is, nevertheless, the 
more sensible way of viewing it. Papa, tell me truly," con- 
tinued the girl, taking the dear face between her hands and 
looking into his clear brown eyes, “tell me truly, are you not 
disappointed in Mr. Sagamore?" 

“No, Myrtle," he replied. “He is a shrewd politician. 
I admire him very much." 

“As a politician. Papa," said Myrtle, searchingly. “But 
as a man, as a friend, he does not hold the same place in 
your regard? You look troubled. Papa ! Ah ! I can under- 
stand! Now, Papa, will you, regardless of Mr. Sagamore's 
cold attitude toward you, and toward the regular organi- 
zation — will you still give him the nomination?" 

“I shall do my utmost to have him nominated, certainly. 
I have promised. He is a trustworthy man, his honor is 
incorruptible, he will serve the State well. His present un- 
certain attitude towards me, personally, can make no dif- 
ference. He has always been outspoken against the organi- 
zation." 

“But he will not scruple — he has not scrupled, to ac- 
cept favors at the hands of the organization which he de- 
nounces," cried Myrtle, with scorn. 

“You are a severe judge, my child," said Mr. Watter- 
son, mildly. 

“It is possible. Papa, that Dick may develop strength 


472 


THE WATTERSONS. 


enough at the Convention to force you to compromise with 
him/’ 

''If so, I shall compromise, my dear,” replied her father, 
smiling. 

"The condition of the compromise may be Mr. Saga- 
more’s elimination,” said shrewd little Myrtle. 

"Then,” said Mr. Watterson, grimly, "there will be no 
compromise. Either Dillingham or I will cease to be 
politically, if Sagamore’s candidacy is made the issue.” 

"I do not believe that Mr. Sagamore deserves such a 
sacrifice on your part. Papa.” 

"He has my word. If nominated, he will surely be 
elected, for he is very strong with the rank and file. He 
will serve the people well in office, if only,” he added, a little 
sadly, "if only to further his own ambition.” 

"Supposing, Papa, that when elected, he should turn 
upon you?” 

"It is possible that he may, my dear.” 

"If you knew that he would prove so ungrateful. Papa, 
would you still give him this nomination?” 

"Surely, Myrtle.” 

Here Myrtle unaccountably melted into tears, and burst , 
into that old, childish cry. 

"Oh, Papa, if I could only, only, only tell you how 
much I love you.” 

"In politics, my love, to be just, one must learn to 
eliminate oneself entirely. But, Myrtle, if all women judge 
men as harshly as you do, I think it would be well to with- 
hold the ballot from them.” 

"On the contrary. Papa, that very severity of judgment 
is needed to purify political life,” said Myrtle, nodding. 
"But have you been studying the subject, as you promised. 
Papa?” 

"Very closely,” replied Mr. Watterson, waving his hand 
toward a number of books of which she had despoiled her 
library for his perusal. 

"God grant that we win you for our leader,” said 
Myrtle, ardently. 

The State Convention was set for the second week in 
July, and the result was awaited with deep anxiety by Re- 


THE CONVENTION. 473 

publicans throughout the country. Springfield, the capital 
of Illinois, was the chosen city. 

The general interest awakened by the struggle for 
supremacy between the big bosses brought many thousand 
of visitors. They came from all parts of the State, and from 
adjoining States. Dillingham arrived two days before the 
opening day of the Convention ; Watterson did not reach the 
ground until the evening before the momentous day. The 
greatest excitement prevailed in Springfield. The result 
of this Convention would decide the leadership of the 
Republican party in the State. Either Watterson or Dil- 
lingham would go out of the Convention a ruined man. It 
was generally believed that Watterson would be the man. 

''Watterson's a goner,'' said Dillingham to the news- 
paper men on his arrival, which words appeared in great 
headlines in the morning papers all oyer the State. It was 
the prevailing opinion, but, strangely enough in view of this, 
Watterson's name wherever uttered evoked the wildest 
enthusiasm. It was on every tongue. 

''Watterson ! Watterson !" 

It was shouted aloud in the streets, and taken up and 
repeated, and sent rolling along on a growing tide of pop- 
ular favor. Thousands of farmers had flocked into the 
city, and Watterson was the farmers' idol. They gath- 
ered around his headquarters in great numbers, and waited 
there for hours on the chance of seeing him. They cheered 
when his name was mentioned. They roared lustily on 
catching sight of him. They pressed around him eagerly, 
cheering in frantic enthusiasm. 

Not the farmers only. Men of all classes united in sing- 
ing his praises. Delegations of visitors waited upon him in 
the evening, eager to do him homage. The press had done 
its work well. By constantly dwelling upon his virtues as 
leader and citizen during the past weeks and months it had 
crystallized a popular sentiment around him that bid fair 
to sweep all before it and carry him, the people's idol, into 
the Governor's chair. 

The visitors spent much of the night in uproarious 
jollification. They paraded the streets with bands playing; 
they held meetings, and indulged in long-winded speeches 


474 


THE WATTERSONS. 


defying the opposing party and eulogizing their leader. 
Towards morning the town became comparatively quiet, 
but ere the following day was two hours old the noisy 
demonstrations were resumed, and the uproar centering 
around the Convention Hall became greater than ever. 

The hall was a huge brick structure, newly painted a 
glaring yellow, and decorated from the ground to the roof 
with streamers of gay bunting. Flags floated above the 
roof and hung drooping from the windows. The national 
colors were everywhere. Within, the decorations were even 
more splendid. The walls were draped in red, white, and 
blue; from lofty pillars bunting streamed; flags waved; 
banners were conspicuously displayed. A platform at the 
upper end of the hall was one mass of flags and flowers. 
The rugged features of Lincoln, the stern face of Grant, 
and the powerful countenance of Logan looked out of a 
background draped in the national colors. 

Outside the sun shone gloriously down out of a clear 
sky. A gentle breeze coming from the south tempered the 
heat to a pleasurable mildness. The streets were alive with 
people. In the wide, open space around the hall a great 
throng had gathered. As the morning advanced delegates 
began pouring in, coming at first in twos and threes, and 
then in greater numbers, marching, one county delegation 
succeeding another, each uproariously greeted by the wait- 
ing crowd. It was a scene of bustling gayety. Women and 
children, decked out in their prettiest colors, mingled with 
the men, cheering and laughing in merry abandon. Bands 
played, flags waved, the shouts of the multitude rose and 
swelled, and upon its rolling tide was borne along the name 
of Watterson. 

They awaited his coming with intense eagerness. No- 
table men arrived and were cheered as they pushed their 
way into the hall. Leaders of national repute were recog- 
nized and hailed in passing, but always and above all they 
looked for one man — Watterson. They talked of him, dis- 
cussing his qualities as leader, as orator, as statesman, as 
politician. The morning papers were full of him. They 
recounted at length the remarkable demonstrations of loyalty 
he had met with on his arrival at the State Capital, but they 


THE CONVENTION. 


475 


continued, for the most part, in the firm conviction that he 
was doomed. They admitted his popularity with the masses, 
but declared that Dillingham and not he would rule the 
Convention. Dillingham, they said, was master of the sit- 
uation. He held the balance of power and would surely use 
it to further his own ambitions. The most powerful of the 
organization leaders were behind him, and during the last 
few weeks they had one and all come out openly, expressing 
their dissatisfaction with existing things, and declaring a 
change in both policy and leadership of the organization 
to be imperative. 

In the face of this, Mr. Watterson, the evening before 
had come out with a statement to the press and public, de- 
claring that the most perfect harmony existed within the or- 
ganization, speaking of that body as a whole as represented 
by over two hundred thousand Republican voters. This 
declaration had given rise to countless rumors. It was said 
that the leaders of the second rank had united their forces 
with Watterson's. His jubilant supporters declared that 
even if Dillingham gained the upper hand in the Convention 
the victory would be a hollow one. It would simply mean 
his elimination, and that of his allies as well. 

All of which matters kept the tongues of the knowing 
ones wagging pretty freely. 

Suddenly when the uproar was at its highest, a silence 
fell upon those immediately around the entrance to the hall. 
It spread in all directions. Something was happening or 
was about to happen. What could it be? People craned 
their necks, and sought to push forward into the line formed 
by a double line of blue-coats. Dillingham was approaching, 
Dillingham the traitor, Dillingham the usurper, Dillingham 
the enemy of Watterson. Word was passed from mouth to 
mouth. Those in the rear pressed forward, eager to get 
a glimpse of him. He was surrounded by his allies in the 
fight — Brockington — Applegate — Osborne — Spitzbub — Wil- 
marth — Forsyth and Summerville. They seemed to be in 
high good humor. Dillingham was grinning from ear to 
ear. His companions were laughing and talking noisily. 
Hisses greeted them ; groans, coming from every direction ; 


476 


THE WATTERSONS. 


abusive epithets and sneers of open scorn. A voice cried 
''Hurrah for Watterson 

A great uproar of applause ensued. Dillingham was ^ 
observed to throw back his head and laugh. In fact, the | 
outbreak seemed to tickle the big, portly leader from center 
to circumference. He still was laughing convulsively when 
he disappeared with his party into the Convention Hall. Al- 
most with his disappearance a cry beginning far down the 
line came swelling in clamorous acclaim running the length . 
of the enthusiastic throng and culminating in a grand out-| 
burst of cheering around the hall. It announced the ap-j 
proach of the great man. Bands struck up more lively tunes,’ 
but the music was drowned out by the uproar. The crowd fi 
pressed forward with such impetuosity that the double line I 
of officers wavered and almost gave way. | 

"Watterson ! Watterson V' j 

Dillingham came rushing out, followed by his friends 
and allies. Pausing in the door he gazed in the direction 
of the greatest cheering with intense eagerness. 

"There he is,’’ he cried, excitedly. 

There he was sure enough, the center of a frantic mob 
of madmen. His ruddy face was wreathed in smiles. He 
was advancing briskly, so briskly that Bloomfield and the 
other Clarence County delegates could scarce keep abreast of 
him. 


"Watterson ! Watterson !” 

The cry swelled louder as he approached the hall. The 
big man came on with redoubled spee*d. It was a trying 
situation for any man and might easily have become ridicu- 
lous ; but Watterson did not strut nor pose nor puff out his 
cheeks, nor frown majestically. He smiled broadly; he 
laughed and shook his head, talking aside with Bloomfield. 
It was too droll that this demonstration which of right be- 
longed to Sagamore should be tendered him! 

Dillingham still stood in the entrance when Watterson 
came up. His great red face absolutely beamed with affect- 
ion at sight of his old friend. He started forward with 
both arms outstretched when Brockington plucked him by 
the sleeve. Dick paused irresolutely. The two big leaders 
regarded each other for a moment. Mr. Watterson’s glance 


THE CONVENTION. 


477 


was inquiring; he bowed gravely. Dick ducked his head in 
an awkward, shamefaced way and turning abruptly he hur- 
ried into the hall. Mr. Watterson followed, hat in hand, 
wiping the perspiration from his face. 

The tumult without somewhat abated with the disap- 
pearance of the great man ; but the cheering was taken up 
by the spectators within. Some one on the platform brought 
a gavel down with force and decision. The delegates flocked 
to their places. Mr. Watterson took the seat assigned 
him with his delegation. Friends pressed around him eager 
for a word, a look, a smile of recognition. He talked with 
those around about him ; greeted old friends from the rural 
districts and received and answered scores of messages. 
When silence was in a measure restored, the business of the 
day began. 

It would be both useless and tedious to recount in detail 
the doings of the first two days. It was the usual routine 
work. David Johnson, a backwoods delegate, loyal to 
Watterson, was made chairman of the temporary organiza- 
tion. He delivered a short, crisp address, fiery and brusquely 
to the point, exhorting all conflicting parties to forget 
their differences for the time being, in order that they might 
work together in harmony and in the interest of the party 
' and the State. Committees on permanent organizations, cre- 
dentials, resolutions and platform were then named, where- 
• upon the Convention adjourned. Convening again on the 
. following day at noon, a permanent organization was 
i effected, Watterson gaining control, though not without a 
; considerable show of opposition on the part of Dillingham's 
) cohorts. Mr. Boswell of Bloomington was made Chairman, 
; a friend of Watterson, a lawyer of note in his home town, 
and a rising man in the politics of the State. The various 
committees made their reports. There were no contests. 
Everything moved along swimmingly. 

Chairman Boswell delivered an address, lasting thirty 
minutes, in which he made an eloquent plea for harmony. 
He was heartily cheered. He was followed by other speak- 
ers, who touched in passing upon State and National is- 
sues, but in the main their speeches were, like the Chair- 
man's, pleas for peace and amity. The speaking occupied 


478 


THE WATTERSONS. 


fully three hours. It was late in the evening when the plat- 
form was taken up. Its planks were all prepared before- 
hand and considered and reviewed from every possible point 
of view. Some debate followed and a little speechifying of a 
purely perfunctory character. 

The issues were precisely defined. It denounced at some 
length the Democratic administration, both State and Na- 
tional, citing various errors of extravagance and mismanage- 
ment. It pointed out the necessity for a change, promised 
economy in administering the afifairs of the State and 
pledged the Party to reform all along the line. It extolled 
the Republican Party to the skies, pointing with pride to 
its record in the past. It endorsed the National platform 
as a whole and whereased and pledged itself through many 
pages. This platform was read aloud and adopted amid 
demonstrations of vociferous applause, when the Convention 
adjourned until the morrow at ten o’clock. All that re- 
mained was to nominate candidates for the various offices. 

The harmony that had characterized the first two days’ 
proceedings created universal wonder. Things had run as 
smoothly as if there had never been any conflicting factions 
within the Party. Watterson had conducted the proceed- 
ings as usual, as shown by the speed with which the pre- 
liminaries had been rushed through. Dillingham had had no 
word to say; none of the leaders had interfered with the 
Watterson programme. Delegates belonging to the hostile 
faction had delivered addresses, all chiming charmingly in 
with the sentiments of the faithful. It was most remarkable ! 
What had happened to boisterous Dick? Had the very 
sight of his former friend and chief paralyzed his faculties ? 
That was the general question. To the assembled news- 
paper men he had but one word to say — ‘Wait.” It was 
taken as an indication that he was reserving himself 
for the morrow when the nominations were in order. 
Later in the evening when approached by Farraday, the 
Courier correspondent, he said with emphasis: “You may 
say as far as Watterson’s slate is concerned, that it won’t go 
through ; Sagamore won’t get the nomination. That is all 
that I have to say.” 


THE CONVENTION. 479 

“The slate stands,” said Watterson, mildly. “Sagamore 
is the Convention’s choice.” 

And so matters rested for the night. The crowd was 
jubilant, believing, perhaps, that Dillingham was afraid to 
act in the face of their lively demonstrations. The night 
passed quietly. The visiting thousands, exhausted by their 
exertions, slept wherever possible. Watterson was exceed- 
ingly active, however. His headquarters bustled with life 
until the wee small hours of the morning. He held a con- 
ference at two A. M., and at its conclusion the statement 
he gave out to the newspapers was substantially the same as 
in the morning. Sagamore and Martindale would be the 
candidates for the two principal State offices, and the rest 
of the slate was finally adjusted during the night to the 
satisfaction of all parties faithful to the organization. 

In the morning the parading outside was resumed, the 
shouting, the playing, the huzzahing. Still the name of 
Watterson was in every mouth, only there was now an 
added note of triumph given to the cheering sound. Their 
pride in him was very great. He dominated the Conven- 
tion. He had but to show himself to provoke the most 
frantic outbursts of cheering. He continued in high good- 
humor through it all. He laughed at the general enthusiasm 
and excitement. He would by no means allow that all this 
adulation was meant for him personally, but persisted in de- 
claring that the people were honoring the Party in him, hav- 
ing as yet no other man upon whom to focus their atten- 
tions. 

“Wait until Sagamore is nominated,” he said. 

“But they don’t want Sagamore, Scott,” said Bloom- 
field, “they want you.” 

So said everybody, urging him to accept. 

“Nonsense,” was Mr. Watterson’s invariable reply. 
“We’ll nominate Sagamore.” 

Sagamore came down with a party of enthusiastic 
friends on the morning of the second day and called upon 
: Watterson at the latter’s headquarters. The two men 
I greeted each other cordi^ly and later in the day Sagamore, 
jto the newspaper men assembled, for the first time, made 
plain his position in the fight. 


480 


THE WATTERSONS. 


It would seem that he had always been with Watterson, 
but that he had refrained hitherto from speaking for rea- 
sons which he did not feel called upon to mention. He hoped 
sincerely that harmony would prevail to the end in the 
Convention, and that a reconciliation would be effected be- 
tween the two big leaders. Dillingham was invaluable to the 
Party. The Party could ill afford to lose Dillingham. It 
could not spare Brockington, nor Applegate, nor Spitzbub, 
nor in fact any of the warring leaders. They were all valu- 
able to the Party. Difficulties such as this would arise, but 
they served a useful end after all. He hoped sincerely that 
all would run smoothly and that the Convention which was 
expected to tear the Party asunder would really cement its 
varying elements into a powerful whole and thus lead on to 
the victory of the people. There was much more to the pur- 
pose. An exceedingly able and masterly exposition, showing 
how a shrewd, self-seeking politician can shroud his true 
sentiments in mystery, as Farraday said in the Chicago 
Courier. 

The third day of the Convention. Imagine a rather 
rudely finished hall, constructed after the manner of a thea- 
tre, with auditorium, balcony, stage and orchestra. In the 
auditorium the delegates are crowded; the balconies are 
thronged with spectators, men and women, old and young, 
rustic and dandy, farmer and business man. Upon the 
stage, a narrow platform, is the Chairman and other im- 
portant dignitaries, facing the auditorium. Above the stage 
the musicians are stationed; immediately in front are the 
newspaper men. The national colors are everywhere. Por- 
traits of leaders, alive and dead, look out of bowers of dra- 
pery. It is a sight to quicken the imagination. Above all is 
gayety and animation; below all is bustling activity. The 
delegates are gathered in knots of twos and threes, and in 
groups of a score. They talk and laugh, some rush hither 
and thither in quite a frantic manner. A murmur of many 
voices produces a hum of great volume. The music plays 
softly. 

Suddenly the Chairman’s gavel descends, and a moment 
of silence ensues. Again the gavel descends and the dele- 
gates flock to their places ; the spectators settle in their seats 


THE CONVENTION. 481 

amid a prodigious rustling; the reporters become attentive; 
the music ceases. Then silence. 

Looking closely down into the auditorium one can dis- 
tinguish many of that body’s leading spirits. There is Wat- 
terson, towering head and shoulders above those around him. 
His is a handsome head. The thick curly mane forms a 
perfect bower above it. The short rippling beard still retains 
its native brown, though the frosts of time have alighted up- 
on the locks, coloring them a pleasant iron gray with here 
and there a glint of auburn between. The massive brow, the 
great brown eyes and the short, thick, well-formed nose, are 
well-proportioned to the man's gigantic stature. The ruddy 
glow upon his cheeks, the moist clearness of his eye, his 
steadiness of hand and majestic poise bear witness at once 
to perfect health and native dignity of soul. 

Behind him and to the left across the aisle sits Dilling- 
ham, the lower half of whose face is so much broader than 
the upper half, that his head at first glance has a queer look 
of topsy-turviness. It is a coarse, but not an evil face. You 
cannot help liking it. There is a genial humor about the 
heavy-lidded eyes that is irresistible. The blunt edges of his 
thick black moustache tend upward in a perpetual grin. His 
thick, short-cut black hair is mottled with grey. He is gaud- 
ily dressed as usual. A great diamond sparkles in his white 
shirt-front. His exceeding redness of countenance seems to 
be the result of constant rubbing and scouring. He abso- 
lutely glows with cleanliness. 

Then there is Southgate, no longer a leading spirit, to be 
sure, but still an interesting one. He is as portly, as florid 
and as stififly starched as of yore. The outward man is the 
same as it was in his palmiest days. But his eyes have no 
longer the bold, challenging look given by conscious power. 
His glance is quick, furtive, suspicious. He distrusts every- 
one, suspects everyone; is nobody’s friend. He is an object 
at once of curiosity and contempt to those around him. He 
stands alone; he is old; he has lost his grip; his old-time 
friends have abandoned him. 

Sagamore is not present in the body, nor is Martindale, 
nor Winthrop. There are Brockington, Applegate, Spitz- 
bub, Summerville and other leaders, delegates from their 


482 


THE WATTERSONS. 


various counties. There are many rising men in that assem- 
bly, who some day will be among the leaders of the Nation. 

But hush ! Chairman Boswell has begun his opening 
address. An able and eloquent review of the leading issues 
of the day, a masterly arraignment of the opposing party, 
a forceful exposition of their duty to choose men tried and 
true to carry their standard to victory. Other addresses 
follow; same theme, same thrilling eloquence; same hearty 
applause. Then : 

“Nominations are in order. Gentlemen 

The great hall becomes hushed. The Clerk begins the 
roll-call of counties in alphabetical order. One, two, three 
counties pass, one of them strangely enough belonging to 
the Dillingham faction. Outside there is cheering. The 
name of “Watterson! Watterson!’' rises clear above the 
roar. Within all is still. 

“County Clarence.’’ 

Mr. Bloomfield, Mr. Watterson’s law partner, and 
leader of the Clarence County Delegation, steps forward and 
faces the assembled delegates. He begins his address with 
the ease and grace of a practiced orator. His voice, at first 
low, gathers strength and volume as he proceeds. The hall 
is hushed. 

Mr. Bloomfield joined the Chairman in the fervent hope 
that harmony would prevail to the end in that Convention. 
(Applause.) He pointed out the necessity of showing the 
enemy a united front. (Warm Applause.) He regretted ex- 
ceedingly the recent disturbance, fulminated chiefly, he be- 
lieved, by disgruntled leaders, who as on a previous occasion, 
showed themselves .eager to wreck the party they could not 
rule. (Dark glances in Southgate’s direction.) He did not 
believe that any real difiference existed, was sure that any 
slight misunderstanding might be agreeably adjusted. The 
history of the past day or two proved that they were all of 
one mind in the essentials of party rulings and party issues. 
(Applause.) The dififerences then, if differences there were, 
must lie in the choice of candidates. He did not see why they 
could not unite on a man fit to be the Party’s standard bearer. 
Each delegation could name its choice of candidates, and the 


THE CONVENTION. 483 

one most in favor would, according to immemorial custom, 

' receive the nomination. 

I He then launched out into glowing eulogy of the Na- 

1 tional Party leaders. He dwelt at length upon the momen- 
I tons issues of the campaign as expressed in the National 
Party platform. Coming down to local affairs, he gradually 
came to the point for which they all were waiting. 

^'In a time such as this,’' said Mr. Bloomfield, in part, 
''when momentous questions are at issue, it behooves us as 
I good citizens, true patriots, and loyal Republicans, to nomin- 
! ate a man for Governor of this great State who in himself 
I unites not only the qualities of a great leader, but who also 
' possesses all the qualifications for the making of a good, a 
; great, a wise ruler. I have in mind a man who is in every 
I way admirably fitted for this high office ; a man who in many 
a fight has proved himself a born leader ; whose record is as 
an open book, whose services in the legislature and in Con- 
gress have reflected honor upon himself and upon the State, 

I a man of the people, and who will, if elected to this great 
; office, govern by and through the people. His honor and 
, loyalty and patriotism have never been called into question. 

His strength and popularity with the rank and file of the 
I party is greater than any other man’s in this State. Mr. 

I Chairman, and Gentlemen of the Convention, I have the 
honor of proposing the name of John Sagamore of Jackson- 
ville, as candidate for Governor of this State.” 

A storm of applause greeted the nomination. The Wat- 
! terson delegates cheered; the crowd in the galleries roared 
lustily; the waiting throngs without joined in the uproar. 
For three or four minutes the cheering continued, but 
through it all the Dillingham crowd sat mute and motionless. 

1 Dillingham, their leader, was scowling ferociously, as he 
. looked at the cheering throng. The Chairman pounded for 
silence. Quiet was restored after a while, and the Clerk con- 
tinued with the roll-call of counties. One man, then another, 
rose in his place and in behalf of his delegations seconded 
the nomination of John Sagamore. 

"Cook County.” 

fi Mr. Blenheim, Dillingham’s right-hand man, rose up 

\ amid a breathless silence and went forward. He was a tall 


484 


THE WATTERSONS. 


man, with a very handsome head, blonde and fat, and hearty- 
looking — a typical German. His bearing was assured, his 
voice pleasant. Mr. Watterson watched him closely. The 
eyes of all were bent eagerly upon him, but the glance of 
none in that assembly was as eager as Dillingham’s. Dick 
fidgeted in his seat, he stamped, jumped up and down, 
emitting little chuckles. He nodded eagerly to Blenheim, 
and waved his hand as if to urge him on. 

Mr. Blenheim’s address was much like that of Mr. 
Bloomfield and was received with equal applause. His 
plea for peace and unity was a repetition of Bloomfield’s 
prayer for harmony, only differently worded. He, too, 
launched out in an eloquent exposition of national issues; 
he eulogized National Party leaders, and fiercely arraigned 
the administration of the opposing party. 

''My predecessor on this platform,” continued Mr. 
Blenheim, "has enumerated the qualities of mind and heart 
which we, the proud citizens of this grand old State, re- 
quire in a man who aspires to become its first citizen. The 
portrait he has drawn is a very attractive one — a noble pic- 
ture truly. Far be it from me to detract in the slightest de- 
gree from the character of the honorable gentleman whom 
he has named, but my friends, there is in all the length and 
breadth of this State but one man who can and does fill all 
the requirements named. But one. Thirty-five years ago 
at the outbreak of the great war, this man, then young and 
lusty, volunteered his services to his State and Country. 
They were accepted. He went to the front and throughout 
that awful strife he performed his duty honorably as a sol- 
dier should. When peace was restored, he returned home 
prepared to devote himself fully and freely to the service of 
the State which is proud to call him son. Through thirty 
years, without reward or hope of reward, he has served her 
faithfully. For thirty years he has been the principal figure 
in her politics. He has worked ardently to promote her ma- 
terial interests and to advance her political prestige. He has 
served the people well ; he has served the Party nobly and he 
deserves well at the hands of the Party and the people. To 
him is due the Party’s glory in the West ; to him is owing its 
unexampled successes. He has made the Republican Party 


THE CONVENTION. 


485 


loved, respected, honored. Through all his thirty years of 
devoted service his character has remained unsullied. In his 
personality he combines not only all the elements that go to 
make greatness, but also all that is good and grand and noble 
in nature. He stands alone, a colossal figure, a soldier, a pa- 
triot, a statesman, a man ! He has never yet been honored 
by his Party and I propose to honor him now. Mr. Chairman 
and Gentlemen of the Convention, I have the honor on be- 
half of the Cook County delegation, to nominate for Gover- 
nor of Illinois — Winfield Scott Watterson.’’ 

A moment of silence, deep, breathless, overwhelming 
silence, followed. Then the very building seemed to rock 
on its foundations with the roar that went up. Again and 
again that roar went up in deafening acclaim. It was 
echoed without a hundredfold. 

‘'Watterson ! Watterson V' 

The wildest scenes of excitement ensued. The nine 
hundred odd delegates rose as one man, and as one man 
hurled themselves upon the towering figure of Watterson. 
They fought like madmen to get at him. They overturned 
chairs and benches in the struggle; they danced in each 
other's arms ; they played leap frog in the aisles ; they com- 
mitted a thousand absurdities. They howled and shrieked, 
and stamped and whistled like schoolboys in a frolic. And 
always above the confusion rose the name of Watterson. 

Watterson stood utterly astounded, the center of a host 
of struggling madmen. Dillingham had his arm around him. 
Big tears were rolling down Dick's fat cheeks. All his old 
leaders were there, his former friends and allies. 

''Scott, Scott !" gasped Dillingham over and over again. 
"Scott! Scott!" 

He could say no more. He pumped Scott's arms up and 
down, up and down with the most frantic enthusiasm, emit- 
ting little laughing ejaculations of ecstasy. 

"What does this mean, Dick?" asked Mr. Watterson. 

"It means that we're bound to make you Governor of 
Illinois," bellowed Dick, dancing up and down. "Do you 
hear 'em, Scott ? Oh, do you hear that glorious roar ? What 
name are they yellin' ? Yours, Scott, yours ! Who done 
this? Why I did, Scott, I did. That was my little game. 


4^6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


I made a door-mat of myself, so that they, might see what 
you really are. They've been usin' me for a football, but 
all the time they were findin' you out. God Almighty, I'm 
as happy as the devil !" 

“But Sagamore, Dick — " 

“Damn Sagamore," yelled Dick. “Watterson ! Watter- 
son !" 

For fully a half hour the uproar continued. Nor could 
the Chairman by any amount of pounding bring order out of 
the chaos. Several backwoods delegates started in to wreck 
the place by way of testifying their enthusiasm and the Ser- 
geant-at-Arms had actually to interpose his authority to 
save the chairs and windows from destruction. 

“It won't do, Dick," said Mr. Watterson, shaking his 
head very gravely. “It won't do at all." 

“It's got to do. Look up there," said Dick, pointing to 
the galleries. Mr. Watterson followed his finger and en- 
countered a thousand pairs of eyes, a thousand fluttering 
handkerchiefs and waving hands and swinging hats. 

“Watterson ! Watterson !" 

“Do you hear 'em?" cried Dick. “You can't do a thing, 
Scott. I knowed I'd have to force it on you and that's why 
I came prepared." 

Cries of “Speech, Speech" began to be distinguished 
above the uproar, and the clamor soon became unanimous 
and imperious. Mr. Watterson still stood surrounded by his 
fellow delegates, who were showering their congratulations 
on their idol. The big man looked exceedingly thoughtful, 
not to say perplexed. Presently he turned and held a whis- 
pered conference with Bloomfield. The Chairman, at a nod 
from him, brought his gavel into quick and forceful play. 
The cries ceased and the delegates quickly resumed' their 
places. But long ere quiet had been restored Bloomfield had 
risen and had made a motion that the Convention adjourn 
until the afternoon. 

Dillingham bounded up, roaring “No ! No !" And “No ! 
No! No!" was roared forth from a thousand throats. But 
all too late. The motion was seconded by another of Watter- 
son's delegates and Chairman Boswell at a nod from Watter- 


THE CONVENTION. 487 

son, declared the Convention adjourned until five o^clock in 
the evening. 

Dillingham was furious but helpless ; his natural good- 
humor soon' asserted itself, however, and linking his arms 
with Watterson’s, the two big leaders walked out of the 
Convention Hall arm in arm. The other delegates followed 
cheering. 

But one man in all that vast assembly remained be- 
hind forgotten and forsaken. Poor Southgate, betrayed by 
Dillingham, kept his seat until the Hall was entirely empty ; 
then he too arose and crept after the others. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


IN WHICH JOHN SAGAMORE IS NOMINATED. 

The two big leaders walked arm in arm out of the Con- 
vention Hall, and were received by a howling mob of mad- 
men without. Word had gone forth that he, their idol, was 
the chosen of the Convention, and that word had stimulated 
the ardor of his worshippers into a frenzy of enthusiastic 
adulation. 

‘'Watterson ! Watterson !” 

Ten thousand voices joined in the cry. The uproar was 
deafening. Mr. Watterson looked out over the crowd in a 
kind of wonder. They pressed around him tumultuously. 
The great man's guard of honor, augmented by a score of 
volunteers, gathered closely around him, and walking slowly, 
cheered every step of the way, they escorted him and 
his Party in safety to Dillingham's headquarters. Dillingham 
was jubilant. 

'‘Do you hear 'em, Scott?" he cried, "Oh, do you hear 
that gentle roar? You can't get out of it, Scott. Your 
hands are tied." 

Mr. Watterson no longer smiled, but looked exceedingly 
thoughtful. What had been a droll affair in the morning had 
now become a serious possibility. He understood it all now. 
Dillingham had never been his enemy, but on the contrary 
had conspired with the others to force this honor upon him. 
Dick's threatening attitude had brought the attention of the 
entire State press to bear upon him and his career; it had 
focussed the public eye upon him, as nothing else could 
have done. The adulation of the press through the weeks 
had served to crystallize the popular regard for him into 
a frenzied fervor. And this was the result. Oh, he under- 
stood it all now! 

"Dick, Dick," he said with deep emotion. "Why did 
you do this this thing? " 

"To make you Governor of Illinois, Scott," laughed 
Dick. 


JOHN SAGAMORE IS NOMINATED. 489 

'‘It won’t do, Dick,” said Mr. Watterson, shaking his 
head slowly, "it never will do. The nomination was prom- 
ised to Sagamore.” 

"To hell with Sagamore,” said Dick hotly. 

Dick had, as was usual with him, established himself 
above a saloon. Mr. Watterson made a grimace of repug- 
nance as they neared the place. 

“Why do you always fix your headquarters in a bar- 
room, Dick?” he said, frowning. 

"Upon my word, you’re a woman, Scott,” said Dick, 
grinning. "That’s just the kind of a face the wife makes 
when she comes to my place in the City.” 

He had several commodious rooms above stairs, and 
there Mr. Watterson found all of Dick’s confederates 
awaiting him. Senator Nightingale, too, was there and sev- 
eral other important men. They pressed around him 
laughingly and poured out their congratulations. 

"It will soon be Governor Watterson, I hope,” said Sen- 
ator Nightingale. 

Mr. Watterson slowly shook his head, but said nothing 
then. An hour later, however, when they had eaten luncheon, 
and the leaders, with some half dozen of the more important 
Party men, were gathered in grave conference, he made a 
:| distinct and emphatic declaration of his purpose. He would 
1 under no consideration accept the nomination, and he asked 
I them as friends to do their utmost to quell the tumult cen- 
I tering around him. 

I "The nomination was promised to Sagamore,” he said, 

I "and we must remain true to our promise.” 

"But the people want you, Scott,” said Brockington. 
"They will respect my wishes, Ben.” 

"You can’t mean to decline, Scott,” gasped Dillingham, 
who had listened in a kind of stupor as his chief declared his 
determination to reject the proposed honor. 

"Dick, I prize your friendship highly and I am deeply 
grateful, believe me, for what in your mistaken zeal you 
tried to do for me, but in this you must let me use my own 
judgment. I do not desire this nomination; if you persist 
in trying to force it on me I will rise in the Convention 
and decline it.” 


490 


THE WATTERSONS. 


why? why? why?'’ 

^'There are many reasons why, but one is sufficient. The 
nomination belongs to John Sagamore.” 

‘'We won’t have Sagamore,” said Dillingham, angrily. 

“Anyone but Sagamore,” said Brockington, and the 
others concurred with an emphatic murmur. 

“Oh, it’s a shame,” cried Dick. “Me posin’ as an awful 
example here for months, only to give Sagamore the nomi- 
nation ! It’s an infernal shame, Scott, that's what it is.” 

Mr. Watterson lay back in his chair and roared and 
rumbled with laughter. Dick’s disgust and indignation were 
quite irresistible. 

“Dick, Dick, you should have known me better,” he said 
as soon as he could speak. “Come, boys, let Sagamore have 
it.” 

“Scott,” said Dick, slowly, “if I can prove to you that 
Sagamore was ready and willin’ to throw you over and join 
me in our late fight, will you give him up?” 

“No, Dick,” said Mr. Watterson, mildly. “John had a 
right to choose his own course. You looked very strong 
and one can hardly blame a man for wishing to join the 
stronger party.” 

“You can’t mean that, Scott,” cried Dick, staring. “I 
tell you he’d ha’ throwed you over in a minute if he thought 
you was goin’ under. Lookee here, Scott, I had a double 
purpose in this thing — a treble purpose, I may say. First, 
I wanted to undermine Southgate ; second, I wanted to carry 
you into the Governor’s chair, and third, I wanted to find out 
who was and who wasn’t to be trusted, so that we could 
nip any future Southgates in the bud. I went around and 
without givin’ the snap away, I made proposals to the lead- 
ing men an’ you’ll be surprised, Scott, when you look over 
this list of names and learn some of the men who were dead 
willin’ to throw you over and join hands with me or anybody 
against the organization. Look, Scott, Sagamore’s name 
heads th’ list.” 

Mr. Watterson took the paper which Dillingham held 
out to him. 

“What shall I do with this, Dick?” he said. 

“I don’t care. Do what you like.” 


JOHN SAGAMORE IS NOMINATED. 


491 


The big man held the paper for a while folded as it 
was handed to him, then slowly tore it up and scattered the 
pieces from the window. There was a general gasp at this, 
and some faces even in that room became clearer and ruddier 
with the disappearance of that paper. 

“What did you want to do that for?'' cried Dick, in 
great consternation. 

“I don't want to know these men, Dick," said Mr. Wat- 
terson, shaking his great head. “I do not blame them for 
turning from me to you. I looked weak, and you appeared 
to be strong. It is politics, Dick." 

“You always was a funny feller, Scott," said Dilling- 
ham. “But one thing you've got to do. You've got to drop 
Sagamore. I tell you he ain't to be trusted. Ask Apple- 
gate." 

“He ain't, Scott," said Applegate. “I went to him 
and in Dick's name promised him the nomination if he 
would join us and come out openly againk you. He wouldn't 
come out against you ; he was far too shrewd to compromise 
himself in that way, but when he found out how many dis- 
tricts we held, and saw that we were sure to have the upper 
hand of you in the Convention, he agreed to side in with us, 
and promised at the last moment to throw all the weight of 
his influence on Dick's side, believing in that way he could 
silence the outcry that would be sure to be raised against 
us by both press and public with your downfall." 

“You see, Scott," cried Dick eagerly. “You will drop 
him now, won't you?" 

“No, Dick. Granting that Sagamore was in earnest, 
which I do not believe, his proposed betrayal of me per- 
sonally has nothing to do with it. He will not betray the 
Party nor the people. He is a good man ; he will make a good 
Governor. His rule will reflect honor upon the party and 
upon the State. His services in the past deserve this rec- 
ognition. He’s the strongest man I know of with the rank 
and file and deservedly the most popular." 

“How about yourself, Scott?" 

“I am out of the running, Ben." 

“Scott," cried Dillingham in despair, “don't you owe me 
somethin' ?" 


492 


THE WATTERSONS. 


“I do, Dick, I do,’’ replied the big man, stretching out 
his hand and grasping Dick’s warmly. “I owe you my love 
and friendship.” 

'‘Ah !” Tears came into Dick’s eyes for his was an 
emotional nature. To conceal his agitation, he burst out 
afresh in apparent fury. "I meant for you to go to the Sen- 
ate in Nightingale’s place. 1 meant to have you run for 
Governor with Blenheim, so that Blenheim could step into 
your shoes when Nightingale retired. I kin git fifty thou- 
sand dollars for the campaign fund by giving Blenheim 
second place. And we need the money, Scott. Come now 
let’s compromise this thing. If you’ll go on the ticket, we 
kin git any amount of money, and we’re sure to win. Accept 
this nomination and we’ll give Sagamore second place. It’ll 
be some satisfaction anyhow to force him to creep in on your 
name and popularity.” 

"There you are, Scott,” cried Brockington. "That’ll be 
satisfactory all around. You’ll go to the Senate as proposed. 
Sagamore’ll be Governor and the crowd’ll be satisfied.” 

"You an’ Sagamore would sweep the State, Scott,” 
declared Applegate. 

"Sagamore is not the man to put up with that kind of 
an arrangement,” said Mr. Watterson. 

"Then he’ll git out,” cried Dillingham, savagely. "I’ll 
tell you for good and all, Scott, we will not agree to Saga- 
more.” 

Mr. Watterson looked troubled and anxious. There was 
not a man in the room friendly to his friend. He had at 
dififerent times antagonized them all in what they were 
pleased to call his "grand stand play” in the State Legisla- 
ture. 

"Is it to be a fight in earnest? ” he said slowly. 

Dick rose and thrusting his thumbs into his vest pockets 
took a turn or two through the room. 

"Scott,” he said, pausing before his friend. "We can’t 
fight you, and I might as well own up at once. I ain’t got 
that much power,” snapping his fingers, "with the farmer 
delegates. If you say Sagamore, they’ll stampede for Saga- 
more. If you put up a yaller dog, they’d nominate him. 


JOHN SAGAMORE IS NOMINATED. 493 

That’s the long and short of it. But, Scott, I ask you as a 
friend to drop Sagamore. As a friend, Scott.’' 

'T do not believe, Dick,^’ replied Mr. Watterson, after 
a few moments of silence, '‘that you are as powerless in the 
Convention as you say, and I am very stire that the delegates 
are not as subservient to any one man as you would have me 
believe. Let us arrange another compromise. Believe me, I 
do not want to set my individual will against the will of all, 
nor would I presume to do so if you could show any good 
cause for rejecting a man at once so strong with the rank 
and file of the Party and so worthy and deserving and capa- 
ble as Sagamore is. You are against him, all of you, because 
of the stand he took against certain legislative measures, in 
which you were perhaps interested. But consider, it is the 
very work he did, while in the Legislature that has won him 
the popularity he enjoys today with the mass of the voters. 
Dick, we must put up a good man. We must win. We owe 
it to the Party nationally. And incidentally our political 
existence depends upon the outcome of this campaign. For 
if we are defeated this fall, and through our own folly, the 
organization will be done for. Now, I am loath to antago- 
nize you all, nor do I want to let Sagamore go, so supposing 
we go into the Convention in the good, old fashioned way, 
allowing each County Delegation to name its choice — coun- 
ting me out, remember — and may the best man win.” 

"No good,” growled Dick, "it all comes to the same 
thing. As soon as those crazy farmers find out that you’re 
out of the running they’ll nominate your man with a rush.” 

"Pll concede second place to Blenheim, Dick. Will that 
satisfy you? And another thing,” he added, more slowly, 
"Pll withdraw my hand from Sagamore when he is elected 
Governor.” 

"When he is in a position to fight us?” said Dick, with 
scorn. 

"Surely, Dick, I cannot leave him helpless, when you 
are all against him. You can watch him. You will soon 
be State leader, Dick, I hope, for I need hardly say that if 
I am elected to the Senate, I shall resign my leadership of 
the organization. The leaders have learned that they can 


494 


THE WATTERSONS. 


trust you, and I believe that you will be elected to succeed 
me” 

The way the others crowded around Dick at this an- 
nouncement left little room for doubt, on that score. Dick 
stood grinning, from ear to ear, receiving their congratu- 
lations. 

''Let it be Sagamore then,’' he said, "if I am placed 
where I kin watch him and guard agains’ him, why all right, 
let it be Sagamore.” 

"And Martindale, Dick,” said Mr. Watterson, persua- 
sively. 

"No, No, Blenheim gits second place.” 

So it was settled. 

"Now, I wonder if there are any newspaper men 
about?” said Mr. Watterson, smiling, in high, good humor. 

There were. Dillingham sent word to them, and they 
came up, a dozen or more, with Farraday, in the van. He 
met Dillingham’s triumphant grin with an easy smile. 

"Explain, Dick.” 

Dick explained, chuckling a good deal at the neat way in 
which he had pulled the wool over the eyes of the press 
representatives. There was, it seemed, no conflict in the 
organization. It was united within and impregnable with- 
out, and Watterson was its leader now as he had always 
been. 

"John Sagamore will be nominated,” said Mr. Dilling- 
ham in conclusion. "It is rather a pity we can’t postpone 
business until tomorrow, so that my statement would be 
generally seen.” 

"Til engage to have my paper on the street in an hour,” 
said a reporter for a Springfield newspaper. 

"Good boy.” 

The reporters had barely gone when Sagamore arrived 
with various of his friends and supporters. 

"I’ve heard all about it, Scott,” he said shaking hands 
cordially. "I congratulate you.” 

"On what, John?” 

"On your nomination.” 

"I’ve declined the nomination.” 


JOHN SAGAMORE IS NOMINATED. 495 

Mr. Sagamore stared, changing color a number of 
times. 

''You don’t mean it,” he said. 

"You had my promise, John,” said Mr. Watterson, in a 
tone of reproach. 

"You must recall your declination, Scott,” cried Saga- 
more energetically. "Do not let your promise to me stand 
in the way. I absolve you from it here and now. The peo- 
ple want you, Scott. The leaders want you. You must take 
it.” 

"No,” said Mr. Watterson, coldly. "I have declined, 
and my word stands. If you do not desire the nomination 
— but you do ?” 

"I withdraw only in your favor,” said Sagamore, flush- 
ing. 

"Then you shall be nominated. Ask Dick.” 

"Ask Dick nothing,” said Dillingham, sulkily, "Tve 
given in to you, but I told you once, and Til tell you right 
before him now, that Sagamore ain’t no true man.” 

He looked hard at Sagamore, saying this. Sagamore 
met his glance, smiling disdainfully. 

"Dick is angry, Scott, because I practiced a little de- 
ception on him. Rather unreasonable in him, don’t you 
think, considering the joke he was playing on the whole 
State. He sent Applegate to me with proposals, and in 
order to gain some knowledge of his plans so that I could 
thwart them, I pretended to side in with him.” 

''You pretended,” said Dick rudely. "It wasn’t much 
of a pretense, eh, Applegate ? ” 

"I should say not,” cried the gentleman appealed to. 

"Scott, do you believe that I thought of betraying you,” 
said Sagamore, drawing himself up with a movement full 
,of manly dignity. "If so, I shall withdraw my name as can- 
didate for this nomination. Do you believe me capable of de- 
ception, Scott?” 

"So far from it, John,” said Scott, holding out his hand, 
"that I find it hard to credit your purpose of deceiving 
Dick for my benefit.” 

"It was for your benefit, Scott,” said Sagamore coloring, 
"that is my only excuse.” 


496 


THE WATTERSONS. 


'^Come, Dick, shake hands with John,’’ cried Mr. Wat- 
terson beaming. “You see he is a true man. Be friends.” 

“Well,” said Dick, holding out his hand rather sulkily 
however, “I don’t mind. Politics is politics, after all, and 
men in politics are politicians.” 

They shook hands upon this sentiment, and the other 
leaders followed Dick’s example with more or less grace and 
heartiness. 

“But where is Southgate?” asked Mr. Watterson sud- 
denly. 

“Who, the poodle?” laughed Dick. 

“He is sitting below,” said Sagamore, smiling. “I sa\^ 
him in one of the small rooms at the foot of the stairs.” 

“Shall I whistle for him?” laughed Dick. 

“By no means,” said Mr. Watterson quickly. 

He left the room and softly went down the wide | 
stairway. At a small round table in a little room ofif the ; 
hall sat Southgate with his elbows resting upon the table, and 
his head lowered in his hands. Mr. Watterson approached 
him softly from behind, and placed his large white hand 
upon the stupefied wretch’s shoulders. Southgate looked up 
listlessly, then started up with a cry of mingled astonishment 
and horror. The man whom he had so long antagonized, 
whom he had fought so bitterly, whom he had denounced, 
maligned, abused, outraged, stood before him, but lo ! there 
was no anger in his eyes, no triumph in his smile. Nothing 
but good will and warm cordiality. 

“I’m glad to see you, Southgate,” said the big man, 
beaming. “Dillingham has told me of the valuable services 
you rendered in bringing about our present happy reunion. 
You have acted very generously, Southgate, and I want 
to thank you.” 

Southgate stood staring up at him after he had ceased ' 
speaking, in a dazed wonder. He could not realize this stu- 
pendous thing that was happening to him. A moment ago 
he had stood alone, an outcast, deserted by great and small, 
and now here stood Watterson, the greatest of all, Watter- 
son, his implacable enemy, holding out his hand and speak- 
ing gratefully of services rendered. He gasped once or 


JOHN SAGAMORE IS NOMINATED. 497 

twice, and stammered out some incoherent words, then sank 
down upon the table, and bowed his head in his hands. 

''Come, Ed, don't take it so," said the big man, closing 
the door softly, and sitting down beside his old-time enemy. 

"Oh Scott, Scott," Southgate gasped, pressing Mr. 
Watterson’s hand to his breast. "So help me God, Ed die 
for you ! I always loved you, so help me God I did. They 
made me do it — talked me into it, I mean." 

"I know, I know, Ed. Eve looked into it. Don't think 
of it any more. We'll be good friends and allies for the fu- 
ture. Come upstairs now — the other leaders are there, and 
your place is among them." 

Southgate composed himself with great difficulty, but 
when he had once come to realize the thing fully, he 
promptly fell into his old ways. Dillingham and his corri- 
panions were greatly surprised to see their chief come in 
arm in arm with Southgate. The little man's chest was 
puffed out prodigiously. He strutted and swelled before 
their very eyes. He approached Dick with lordly conde- 
scension. 

"Glad to see you, Dillingham," he said pompously. 
"Ah, Brockington, old boy !. Good afternoon, Applegate. 
Sagamore, you're looking well. Em delighted to see you." 

Dillingham yelled with laughter, but he shook the pom- 
pous little fellow's hand, and the others followed his example 
with more or less grace. Southgate, having come into his 
own again, beamed with radiant happiness. But he remained 
close to Watterson. 

"You will give him his district, Dick?" said Mr. Watter- 
son in a low voice. 

"No, he's lost his grip. Let Keller keep it." 

"Man, man, it will kill him." 

"Let it.# He came very near killing us." 

"Dick—" 

"Oh, all right. Damn it, you're bound to have your 
way." 

Mr. Watterson laughed, and patted Dick on the 
shoulder. 

"Another thing, Dick," said the big chief softly. "Sum- 
merville must go." 


498 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘'What! You come down on a man like Summerville 
after taking Southgate back and overlooking Sagamore’s 
treachery? For you can’t doubt that Sagamore would ha’ 
chucked you overboard to save himself?” 

“Southgate was weak, and Sagamore cautious. That 
is all. But Summerville has been the principal disturber. 
His ambition to go to Congress has turned his head. He 
it was who fomented all this trouble. He used Southgate as 
a cat’s-paw, playing him against the organization. You 
know that? Summerville must go.” 

“But, Scott,” said Dillingham, all aghast. “He’s 
strong as hell — the only one of all worth conciliating. With 
the campaign coming on and election, we can’t afford — ” 

“My dear Dick,” interrupted Mr. Watterson, mildly. 
“The thing must be done smoothly. Give Bentley a hint 
that you’re behind him. Tell Morse to raise the hue and cry 
after him, challenging his right to the leadership on account 
of his desertion. The matter will come up before the 
executive committee for decision. I’ll order a district elec- 
tion, and let it be understood among the rank and file that 
we favor Bentley, and Summerville will never know what 
hurt him. Put the wheels in action right after the Con- 
vention. I rely upon you. The man offends the sight of 
me. To gratify an ambition laudable enough, he turned 
double traitor, betraying us and his allies. He’s got to go.” 

“Shake, Scott,” said Dick, grinning. “I’d begun to 
think you was gittin’ softenin’ of the brain, but I see you’re 
all there yet.” 

Cries of “Watterson ! Watterson ! ” were still in the air, 
but they were not so insistent now, nor vociferous. The 
news had spread that he had declined the nomination, and 
on all sides as he went forth to the concluding session of the 
Convention, a storm of protestations arose against such 
action, mingling with heart-breaking entreaties, that he 
would reconsider his resolution. Dillingham declared with 
tears in his eyes that it was a shame — worse than a shame, 
an absolute crime, to disappoint the faithful so. 

“You’re all the time talking about the will of the people, 
said Dick, indignantly, “and here you’re going right square 
against it.” 


JOHN SAGAMORE IS NOMINATED. 


499 


Mr. Watterson laughed in great good humor, but re- 
mained firm. Southgate walked proudly beside the chief, 
and so, three abreast, they entered the Convention Hall, 
amid the uproarious cheering of the throng. 

The programme for the evening was cut and dried. 
The galleries still murmured ''Watterson,” but the workers 
below reversed their morning's decision and nominated 
Sagamore. It was a tame and disappointing proceeding. 
One county after another arose and pledged its vote to 
Sagamore, but without warmth or enthusiasm. The gal- 
leries repeatedly manifested their disapproval by hisses and 
groans, but to no avail. John Sagamore, receiving the unani- 
mous vote of the counties of Illinois, was declared duly 
nominated to the highest office in the State. This declar- 
ation was warmly applauded, the delegates rising as one 
man to show their approval, but it did not last. The cheer- 
ing was forced. Sagamore was popular enough, but he was 
far overshadowed by a greater than he. 

The thing being done, there followed cries of "Saga- 
more ! Sagamore ! ” The candidate was hastily sent for ; 
he came in haste, and was received at the door by Mr. 
Watterson, who in person escorted him to the platform for 
the purpose of introducing him to the assembled delegates 
and people. Mr. Watterson looked radiant, and was ob- 
served to repeatedly press the younger man's hand. 

Sagamore, with a darker color than usual in his rugged 
cheeks, confronted the crowd with a cool composure born 
of long experience. The appearance of the two men together 
provoked frantic cheering, the applause indeed resembling 
the uprising in the morning. 

"Gentlemen,” said Mr. Watterson, turning to Saga- 
more with his hand resting affectionately on the candidate's 
shoulder, "I have the honor and pleasure of introducing to 
you a young man known to many of you in person, and to 
all by reputation, our candidate for Governor of Illinois, 
Mr. John Sagamore.” 

The words were received with a prolonged cheer. The 
band struck up a lively air. Mr. Sagamore bowed to the 
right and left, and when the uproar had ceased he addressed 


500 


THE WATTERSONS. 


the Convention in that calm tone of assurance and self-con- 
fidence for which the man was noted. 

'‘Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen of the Convention: 
Your message of confidence so generously expressed has 
been conveyed to me, and I am here in response to the 
summons. I am deeply sensible of the great honor you 
have conferred in nominating me as your candidate for 
Governor of this peerless commonwealth, an honor which 
in my estimation is second only to being named as a candi- 
date for the Presidency of our common country. It is my 
duty to accept, and my heartfelt thanks are yours for the 
gracious preferment. Our State covers a vast territory; 
its interests are many and diverse, and the care of fostering 
these requires close and unremitting attention. If elected 
to the high office for which you have named me, my best 
efforts will be exerted to protect these interests and to dis- 
charge faithfully the duties devolving upon me. It will be 
my conscientious effort to so administer the office that every 
citizen will feel that I am in fact, as well as in name. Gov- 
ernor of the whole commonwealth, and that the interests of 
all are dear to me. Gentlemen, I accept your commands, 
and again thank you most sincerely.’’ 

This little speech, gracefully delivered, was received 
with every manifestation of cordial approval. But Mr. 
Watterson’s speech, which followed, again set the hall 
aflame with enthusiasm. It was so strong and stirring as 
a whole; it expressed such warm approval of the Conven- 
tion’s choice, and such confidence in the result of their en- 
deavors, that it in a great measure reconciled the crowd to 
the inevitable, and Sagamore, who was really strong with 
the populace, but held in abhorrence by the politicians, great 
and small, was given an ovation second only to that ten- 
dered his friend in the morning. 

Then followed the selection of candidates for the minor 
State offices. Mr. Blenheim, the gentleman who had 
launched the Watterson boom in the morning, was chosen 
as Sagamore’s running mate, being unanimously nominated 
Lieutenant-Governor. The office of State Treasurer was 
given to Mr. Messier of Galesburg, and the other vacancies 
were quickly filled as per previous arrangement. The Con- 


JOHN SAGAMORE IS NOMINATED. 5OI 

vention lasted until dusk, when it broke up, and the dele- 
gates and visitors went flocking home as fast as steam could 
carry them. 

The reconciliation between the State leaders created 
great satisfaction, and Watterson’s undoubted supremacy 
was hailed by Republicans throughout the country with un- 
common delight. Sagamore’s nomination was on the whole 
satisfactory. He was popular; his past record was without 
a flaw; his future bright with promise. Great things were 
predicted of him, and these predictions he seemed to justify 
by his assured bearing beneath the honors showered upon 
him. He was overwhelmed with congratulations during the 
next few days, to all of which he responded with a sem- 
blance of warmth and a pleasing show of modesty that won 
upon all. 

But to return to the morning succeeding the Conven- 
tion. Mr. Sagamore accompanied his friend to the latter’s 
home at Clarenceburg. They received the warmest greet- 
ings all along the line. Great crowds met them at the sta- 
tions and cheered them- on their way. Mr. Sagamore was 
repeatedly obliged to show himself, and he never failed to 
indulge his admirers, nor refused to speak when speech was 
demanded. At Clarenceburg again there was a vast crowd 
collected, waiting to welcome Mr. Watterson and his dis- 
tinguished guest. They were escorted to Republican head- 
quarters by the local marching club, where an immense audi- 
ence awaited them. Mayor Billy Boyle, in great rotundity 
of person, and jocundity of ■ countenance, laughed his way 
through a short address of welcome. Mr. Watterson, re- 
plying, gave thanks for their reception, and begged leave to 
introduce his distinguished friend to his fellow townsmen. 
Mr. Sagamore followed, and in a speech of thirty minutes’ 
duration, managed to say so many pleasing things of Mr. 
Watterson, the city’s pride and idol, that he quite won the 
hearts of those who heard him. 

There followed a reception in the great parlors of the 
Clarenceburg Hotel, where Mr. Sagamore met the more, 
distinguished of Mr. Watterson’s townsmen, after which 
came a banquet, given in his honor, in which all the digni- 
taries of the town who happened to be of Republican per- 


502 


THE WATTERSONS. 


J 


suasion participated. More speeches, more compliments, I 
toasts and enthusiasm. It was very late when they got ' 
away, and tired enough they were from the day’s exertions. , 

Aunt Sadie’s embarrassment was very great upon re- 
ceiving a guest so distinguished, but, save for certain out- 
ward manifestations of inward disquiet, such as an uncon- 
querable desire to pat her hair and tuck away imaginary 
curls and locks of hair, she bore herself with her customary < 
grace and dignity. Myrtle smiled very brightly when she 
came forward, holding out her hand in welcome, and he, as 
he clasped that little member, looked deep into her beautiful 
eyes, and then and there renewed his resolution to win this 
charming little woman for his own. 

‘‘Papa,” said Myrtle later, when they were alone in the 
study, “I am deeply disappointed in you — deeply. Papa.” 

“Why, Myrtle?” he asked. 

“Because you did not accept the nomination, sir. Don’t 
you know that your daughter would have been very proud, 
oh ! so proud, to have seen her dear father Governor of 
Illinois? Don’t you know that. Papa?” she said, shaking 
him playfully. 

“I had promised my support to Mr. Sagamore, my 
dear.” 

“Mr. Sagamore could afiford to wait,” said Myrtle, 
tossing her head. “It would have been a splendid recog- 
nition of your services to the State — your triumphant elec- 
tion. And you would have been elected. Papa. You have 
earned this honor; Mr. Sagamore has not. I am deeply 
disappointed ; but, oh ! how proud I am of my dear, dear 
father!” 

She kissed him and tousled his hair for him, and nearly 
strangled him in her encircling arms. 

“If Mr. Sagamore had not declared himself for you 
at a time when Dick’s purpose was still shrouded in mystery 
I should have been very angry with him,” continued Myrtle. 
“As it was, it was very late in the day for a man so highly 
placed to come out with a statement. Very late, indeed, 
and I am not sure but that he had some inkling of the true 
state of affairs before he spoke.” 

“For shame. Myrtle! Mr. Sagamore is our guest.” 


JOHN SAGAMORE IS NOMINATED. 503 

''I don’t care/’ said Myrtle, shaking her head saucily. 
''He promised me faithfully to do his utmost to have a reso- 
lution favoring Woman Suffrage embodied in the Republi- 
can platform, and,” added Myrtle, opening wide a news- 
paper and pointing out the offending document with indig- 
nation, "there is no such thing ! ” 

"Aha!” cried Mr. Watterson, laughing, "that is what 
hurts my little daughter.” He lay back in his chair and 
laughed for a long time. 

"Tell me truly. Papa,” said Myrtle. "Did Mr. Saga- 
more say one word to you about such a resolution? — one 
word. Papa ? ” 

"Yes, Myrtle, he did. I considered it a very dangerous 
innovation at the present time, but told him to go ahead and 
sound the others. He did so, and the result was most dis- 
couraging. The thing was unreservedly condemned, my 
dear. John could do nothing.” 

Myrtle sat for a time in silence, with her hands resting 
listlessly in her lap and her eyes fixed pensively upon her 
father. Then slowly two big tears welled up into her eyes 
and rolled down her cheeks. 

"Don’t mind, my darling,” said Mr. Watterson, deeply 
touched. "Time will make all right.” 

"Mr. Sagamore might have forced it in,” said Myrtle, 
rebelliously. 

"My dear little girl, do not be so unreasonable,” said 
Mr. Watterson. "Such a thing cannot be forced against the 
wishes of others. Public opinion as voiced by the press is 
hopelessly against Woman Suffrage now, and such a resolu- 
tion would have inevitably disrupted the party.” 

"Mr. Sagamore, I suppose, was afraid,” pouted Myrtle. 

"I cannot understand you, my child,” said Mr. Wat- 
terson, deeply astonished at the unreasonable and rebellious 
spirit displayed by his usually sensible daughter. 

"Never mind. Papa,” cried Myrtle airily, "I know 
someone who, if he had been in Mr. Sagamore’s place, 
would have done this thing for me, though certain ruin 
stared him in the face. Sherman would have forced it in.” 

"But, Myrtle — Myrtle — ” 

She sprang up laughing, and, throwing her arms 


504 


THE WATTERSONS. 


around his neck, she hugged him soundly and ran away, 
leaving him not a little perplexed and mystified. 

The truth was that Myrtle had divined Mr. Sagamore’s 
true feeling for her, and, with true feminine perversity, she 
was disposed to exact a sacrifice from him which she could 
in no way reward. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


IS LARGELY DEVOTED TO MR. SAGAMORE. 

The correspondence begun late in the winter between 
Myrtle and Mr. Sagamore was continued through the suc- 
ceeding spring and summer, and if it bore fruit in nothing 
else, at least it served to bring about a greater degree of 
intimacy between the two principals than otherwise could 
have obtained. It also gave to each a clearer insight into 
the character of the other. Mr. Sagamore did not, in truth, 
grow very much in Myrtle’s estimation, while she, on the 
other hand, assumed greater and purer proportions in his 
mind. It was the difference between the self-seeking pre- 
tender and the ardent self-sacrificing devotion of an en- 
thusiast. 

Mr. Sagamore was- deeply interested in the Cause. His 
first letters were full of it; full of questions, that is, and 
exhaustive arguments and speculations, all tending to con- 
firm a proud belief in Myrtle’s mind that in him she had made 
a great and powerful convert and ally. The correspondence 
on her side confined itself strictly to the Cause. She pointed 
out at great length and with infinite pains the great good 
to be derived by her sex through the possession of the ballot ; 
of the standing it would give to woman before the world; 
of the reforms it would be able to bring about, and so on. 
She spoke of the great good a really earnest man in a posi- 
tion of power could exert in its behalf and of the glory that 
success would bring to him. His replies, while not as warm 
as she could wish, nor hopeful, nor helpful, were still in the 
main satisfactory, because of his unceasing professions of 
faith in, and loyalty to, the Cause. He suggested nothing, 
promised nothing, did nothing, but he agreed with her con- 
tentions in a general sort of way. 

When Myrtle urged him to come out openly and en- 
dorse Woman Suffrage, he pointed out that in the position 
he was in he was obliged to yield more or less to the wishes 


THE WATTERSONS. 


506 

of others — leading politicians — nearly all of whom were 
opposed to the thing. He had sounded them, he said ; they 
were men who were in position to know the sentiments of 
the people. They must wait. The time was not yet ripe. 
He might do himself irreparable injury by a premature dis- 
closure of his sentiments. The Cause at present was un- 
popular; it had not a single great organ behind it — no dis- 
tinguished advocate. She knew that what he said was noth- 
ing more nor less than a bald statement of the truth, yet she 
condemned him for lukewarmness. She scorned his caution. 
He thought too much of personal aggrandizement ; to attain 
the heights to which he ambitiously aspired, she feared that 
he would abandon the Cause. She would have cheerfully 
yielded up her fame and thankfully have sacrificed any posi- 
tion to which with success she might have aspired on the 
altar of the Cause, and she felt that he, as a true believer, 
should have been willing to do as much. Her letters took 
on a gently reproachful tone. She had hoped, she said, that 
in him the Cause had found a noble champion, its followers 
a worthy leader. She was sorry he had determined to 
abandon it and them. For the stand he had taken, she need 
hardly point out, was an utter surrender, an absolute aban- 
donment. How could the Cause become popular unless it 
was forcibly brought home to the popular mind? How 
could it make progress if the faithful in exalted station re- 
mained silent? Where would its distinguished advocates 
come from if he and such as he did not come out boldly 
for it ? 

He replied in ei¥ect that he had not abandoned the 
Cause, but that he merely refused to immolate himself when 
absolutely nothing could be gained by such immolation. 
If, on the other hand, he remained silent, and by disguising 
his true sentiments, gained a position where his efforts 
would be of avail, he could do the Cause much good. John 
Sagamore, ex-Congressman, was nobody. John Sagamore, 
Governor of Illinois, President of the United States, would 
be somebody. His word would reach far and carry weight. 
Self-sacrifice was all very well in its way, and very beautiful, 
no doubt, and elevating, but impractical, and politics, he 
begged to state, was a field of cold, practical endeavor. His 


IS LARGELY DEVOTED TO MR. SAGAMORE. 507 

I 

natural acerbity of disposition shone through this letter. 
It was a rebuke which Myrtle felt the more keenly, because, 
from the standpoint of practical politics, it was all very 
true, and her reply was correspondingly subdued — and 
colder. And, though he gained a kind of ascendancy over 
her in this, he fell immeasurably in her regard. 

Myrtle was a most unreasonable young woman. De- 
manding many of man’s privileges, she insisted on retain- 
ing all of woman’s prerogatives. She loved chivalry in men, 
the homage of the sterner sex was inexpressibly sweet to 
her. That mere man should stand uncovered in her pres- 
ence; should eagerly attend upon her; should, in a word, 
humbly kiss the hem of her gown and permit her to queen 
it over him — all this was her natural heritage, being a 
woman. Her father’s unfailing courtesy to her, the Gen- 
eral’s magnificent courtliness, Sherman’s reverential hom- 
age, the respect paid to her by every gentleman of her 
acquaintance — all bore out her expectations in this ; and Mr. 
Sagamore’s dry, unchivalrous attitude wounded her deeply. 
She resented his masterful tone. She resented it strongly, 
and she resolved to make him feel her displeasure. 

Her letters became briefer and colder, breathing, in- 
stead of friendliness, a merely fraternal regard. His letters 
drifted away from the subject. He came to speak more of 
himself, of his hopes and aims and ambitions. He was very 
frank and open. His ambition tended to nothing less than 
the very highest summits of political eminence. He was full 
of fire; he worked tirelessly. He made friends wherever 
possible. He was building up an enormous correspondence. 
He had political friends all over the country. His term in 
Congress had brought him into contact with the leading 
-men of the nation. He kept in touch with them for pur- 
poses of his own. The Governor’s chair was but a step 
to higher place. All this he told Myrtle, divulging his 
plans and elaborating upon them with an eloquence, a 
power, a minuteness, and candor which amazed the girl. 
This masterful character charmed her, filled her with ad- 
miration. She again burned with desire to gain this man’s 
active co-operation in furthering the Cause. Her letters 
again became longer and friendlier, and keeping step with 


5o8 


THE WATTERSONS. 


his soaring ambition, she showed him how, by taking up the \ 
Cause and fighting its battles, he could gain his ends and ;; 
win undying fame at one and the same time. j 

She pointed out that no one had ever attained true j 

greatness save when animated by a great cause, and the ; 

Cause of Woman was sublime. She cited Washington, who j 

liberated his country, Lincoln, who liberated the slaves. ; 

Why should not John Sagamore go down the corridors of ^ 

time as the liberator of women ? He answered her eloquent i 

appeals by protestations of loyalty. He tried to draw her , 

out to talk of herself, but she had so completely sunken her 
individuality into the Cause, that in her intercourse with ' 
him she had no existence outside of it. So the matter 
rested. She was assured of his faith and loyalty, and ard- 
ently anxious to gain his outspoken support, because she ^ 

believed that a man at once so strong and cautious, so cal- ; 

culating and ambitious, was eminently qualified to lead the 
Cause to victory. The Cause needed such a man. She 
could wage battle for it with her pen; but she could talk 
only to women. Men must be reached, for with them rested 
the power finally to grant to woman the ballot. Mr. Saga- 
more could reach men; she could not. She was debarred 
from participating in the battle with the sterner sex by con- 
ditions as well as by a natural womanly timidity, for though 
she bore herself with calm composure in the face of the world. 
Myrtle was really very timid and shy at bottom. Her strong 
good sense alone enabled her to conceal this infirmity. She 
could lecture before an audience of women ; she could argue 
with eloquence in her study, having the right to expect that 
her writings would be read by men as well as women, but to 
stand up before an audience of men, or even before a mixed 
audience of men and women — that she had never done — 
could never do. There were women who could do this, of 
course, but Myrtle did not possess that quality of courage. 

It was only of late that the girl had begun to suspect 
Mr. Sagamore’s regard for her. She was a sensible young 
woman, and her good sense told her that no man, least of 
all one so cautious as Mr. Sagamore, would lay bare his 
innermost thoughts to a woman unless he entertained for her 
a regard warmer than mere friendship. When the thought 


IS LARGELY DEVOTED TO MR. SAGAMORE. 509 

had once flashed across her mind she could recall a thousand 
things to confirm her suspicion. She was at first dismayed 
by this discovery and disposed to be capricious. All of her 
further correspondence was colored by the varying emotions 
which the knowledge of his subjection inspired in her. She 
became imperious, exacting. She upbraided him for his pre- 
cautionary silence; she pretended to doubt his loyalty; she 
called into question his faith to the Cause. He answered 
with protestations of good faith. He was charmed by her 
pretty airs of authority. He awaited only the proper mo- 
ment, he said, to come out openly favoring the Cause, and 
as for his faith in and loyalty to the Cause, he hoped to 
prove them to her at some future time. 

He came down with her father, stamped as the chosen 
of the State convention. He was now a great man in earn- 
est. She received him graciously. He was simple and un- 
assuming as ever, but his manner confirmed her in her belief 
that he loved her. His voice was very gentle when he ad- 
dressed her; his eyes followed her about the room; his ex- 
pression softened, his face lit up when she spoke to him. 
Now with the man at a distance she had treated him with 
that charming capriciousness which seemed ingrained in 
her very nature, but the man’s near presence filled her 
with dismay. She could not reciprocate his feeling and 
she felt that it would be very wrong to encourage him. And 
yet she had taught herself to look upon this man as a kind 
of Moses, destined to lead her sex out of the wilderness, into 
the promised land of complete emancipation. So divided 
between the coldness which as a woman, she was bound to 
show to one in whom a warm, womanly graciousness would 
only awaken hopes, and encourage expectations which she 
could never gratify, and the warmth which she as an ar- 
dent devotee to the Cause, desired to show him who was to 
be that Cause’s future leader. Myrtle’s state of mind, may 
more easily be imagined than described. But, resolving 
to bear herself toward him with only such graciousness 
which she as her father’s daughter, owed to her father’s 
guest, and to confine her intercourse with him solely to the 
Cause which bound them together. Myrtle met Mr. Saga- 
more on the following morning with an equable smile, and 


THE WATTERSONS. 


510 

conversed with him only in so far as the laws of politeness 
called for. 

Fortunately Mr. Sagamore’s time was fully occupied 
during the week. He and Mr. Watterson were kept busy 
in arranging the details of the aggressive campaign which 
they proposed to inaugurate during the course of the com- 
ing week with a monster mass meeting at the Chicago Coli- 
seum. It was not until the last evening of his stay that he 
found an opportunity of talking alone with the girl. Of 
course Myrtle could have made endless opportunities to con- 
verse at length with him, but true to her settled purpose of 
giving him no grounds upon which to base hopes which 
could never be realized, she avoided him, though it was with 
very great pain that she let slip many opportunities for 
pressing home her eager arguments for the Cause in which 
she hoped to enlist his powerful services. She could do 
much for the Cause, but she could not debase her woman- 
hood and she felt that to encourage an earnest man to en- 
tertain thoughts of her which would inevitably cause him 
future sorrow and suffering would be lowering her woman- 
hood. 

‘^You have quite a correspondence. Miss Myrtle,” said 
Mr. Sagamore, absolutely invading her study to speak to 
her. 

^'Yes,” said Myrtle, frowning, with a pretty assumption 
of austerity, which far from repelling, charmed him. 

^^Do you not sometimes find yourself at your wits’ end 
for material to work up in your weekly newspaper article? 
Surely two long columns of matter must tax your powers 
to the utmost. I can understand the various essays you con- 
tribute to the periodicals, for then you follow out one line 
of thought ; but in your newspaper article you treat of such 
a multitudinous assortment of things.” 

‘'But all appertaining to woman’s realm, and all based 
primarily on our Cause.” 

“But is it not a hard matter to furnish so much every 
week?” 

“Not at all. I receive scores of letters every week from 
my readers, asking questions arising out of my arguments, 
or suggesting interesting points for discussion. Many crit- 


IS LARGELY DEVOTED TO MR. SAGAMORE. 5II 

icize my opinions. In answering these questions and these 
criticisms, and in acting upon such suggestions as appeal to 
me, or which afifect the Cause, however remotely, I some- 
times over-run my allotted space. These questions that 
form themselves in one person’s mind naturally occur to 
others, and in answering one I am answering many. Then I 
review editorial opinions touching upon our Cause, take due 
notice of woman’s doings over the country, and keep in con- 
stant touch with the great leaders of the Cause who are kind 
enough to write to me sometimes commending me for this or 
that. It is from these that valuable suggestions come. They 
keep me informed of every forward movement of our Cause, 
and it is my duty and pleasure to acquaint my readers with 
these matters, and to comment at length upon their probable 
result which may be far reaching.” 

''What would you call a forward movement?” 

"If you, Mr. Sagamore,” said Myrtle, coloring hotly, 
"'were to come out with a bold statement endorsing our 
Cause, I would call that a step forward.” 

Mr. Sagamore remained silent for a moment. 

"Your father will tell you how impossible that is now,” 
he then said. 

"I notice that you are very bitter against women who 
do not want the ballot.” 

"Bitter against them ! ” cried Myrtle, "why, goodness 
me, no ! What have I ever said to make you think so ? ” 

"You score the Anti-Suffragists almost every week.” 

"Dear me! Mr. Sagamore, there is a vast difference 
between a woman who does not want the ballot, and there- 
fore does not strive for it, and one who, not wanting it, 
endeavors to prevent those who do from obtaining it.” 

"Yes, there is.” 

"I do feel very bitter toward these selfish women. Be- 
cause they, in their fussy narrow-mindedness, cannot com- 
prehend the incalculable benefits to be derived by women, 
through the Suffrage, they laiffle their feathers and peck at 
their more enlightened sisters. You have no doubt read 
the fable of the dog in the manger, Mr. Sagamore. I 
remember as a child crying with pity for the poor hungry 
cattle standing helplessly by, unable, because of a selfish 


512 


THE WATTERSONS. 


little cur, to get at the food which they stood in so much need 
of. I was so very angry at the dog that I could not sleep 
thinking of it, so one night I got up out of bed and took , 
Aunt Sadie’s scissors and cut him out of the picture ; then 
I returned to bed and slept very soundly, happy in the con- 
viction that now the horse and the ox would eat their fill. 

I was very little then, Mr. Sagamore,” said Myrtle, laugh- ' 
ing, though tears stood in her eyes — ^Very small and foolish, 
but I feel now toward those women very much as I then felt 
toward, the selfish dog.” 

''Do you not think. Miss Myrtle,” said Mr. Sagamore, ; 
speaking very slowly, "that you could advance your Cause ^ 
very much by coming out of your seclusion — if you occu- ; 
pied a position, I mean, that in itself will command the ser- j 
ions attention of everyone?” i 

"I — I’m afraid I do not understand you, Mr. Saga- , 
more,” said Myrtle coloring deeply. j 

"If your father, say, were Governor of this State,” j 
continued Mr. Sagamore, "do you not think your position 
upon this question would attract more widespread attention 
to it ? That your utterances would be listened to with more , 
respect and given more serious consideration by thinking 
people than they are now?” 

"I do not think so, Mr. Sagamore,” replied Myrtle, j 
with composure. "My father’s position at present is con- | 
sidered one of more importance than that of Governor, and \ 
he is generally held to be a greater man.” j 

"Oh, is he?” said the candidate for Governor, ruefully, i 
Myrtle could not help laughing. I 

"He may not be as great a man as our next Governor,” | 
she said demurely, "but I am afraid ‘there will be people j 
so very perverse as to think so.” 

"Yes, he is greater in every possible way,” s^id Mr. j 
Sagamore gravely. "He does not know his own great- 
ness. Modesty is a fine quality — in a woman. In a man it 
is a draw-back — in a politician a curse. Mr. Watterson is, 
in my opinion, the very greatest man in this country today, i 
but of what avail is it to him?” 

"Thank you, Mr. Sagamore,” said Myrtle softly. 

He would have pursued the supposition further, but 


IS LARGELY DEVOTED TO MR. SAGAMORE. 513 

his natural caution intervened. He did not wish to startle 
her. He would wait until such time as he could come to 
her — laurel-crowned and victorious. He left her saying he 
wished to speak to her father on a matter very near to his 
heart. 

‘'What a wife she would make/’ he said exultantly. 
“What a helpmate for an ambitious man, but first I shall 
have to clear her dear little head of all these vagaries. Wo- 
man Sufifrage, bah ! Women are better olf without it, as this 
dear little enthusiast proves in her own charming person. 
No doubt I am a scoundrel and a hypocrite, but everything 
is fair in love and war.” 

He went away leaving a better impression on the whole 
than had been on the girl’s mind when he came. Compared 
with her father, he sank inestimably in her esteem. His 
fiery strength, allied to cold caution and wondrous ambition, 
won her admiration, but she could not fail to see that the 
nature of the man was not as pure, as modest, as manly as 
that of her dear father. Her father was ambitious to serve 
the commonwealth, eager to give of his best to that end, 
without desiring to share in the honors which the common- 
wealth had to bestow, while Mr. Sagamore put self above 
all things. He would serve his country only on condition 
that it would bestow its highest honors upon him in return. 
Granted that the man was honest and incorruptible ; that he 
gave of his best to the State and Nation, still he was not 
the man her father was. He, too, was honest and incorrupt- 
ible and infinitely more capable, yet with the best of oppor- 
tunities for self-advancement, he had remained for a score 
of years in the background, and was coming out now only 
because he thought he could be of more use to his country 
at the Nation’s Capitol than here. The honor had not tempted 
him. It could have been his many, many years before. 
Myrtle knew all this, and by comparison with her father’s 
pure character, Mr. Sagamore, who would have shown by 
contrast with almost any other man, shrank to very small 
proportions. 

“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” murmured Myrtle, thinking of all 
this, “either Papa is very much better than all other men, 
or I am dreadfully prejudiced against Mr. Sagamore. I 


514 


THE WATTERSONS. 


ought not to expect so much in a man, but when I see it all 
in my father, how can I help it? I would wish that our 
leader be pure as well as strong, noble as well as able, and 
capable of self-sacrifice, if necessary. Mr. Sagamore would, 
I am sure, abandon us in our need, to save himself, or even 
if he thought that we hampered him in his upward climb. We 
cannot trust him. Oh dear, I do hope and pray to God that 
Papa will see the light. What a champion he would be ! 
What a leader for our Cause ! Oh, dear God, grant it 

''Myrtle,’’ said her father, on the evening of Mr. Saga- 
more’s departure, when they were alone in his study, "Mr. 
Sagamore has spoken to me of you.” 

Myrtle colored deeply, but her face expressed the as- 
tonishment she felt. 

"He asked my permission to pay his addresses to you.” 

"And what did you tell him. Papa?” 

"I told him that he had my permission.” 

"Oh, Papa!” 

"What could I do?” he replied. "Every man should 
be permitted to plead his suit. He is a rising man. Myrtle ; 
no man can tell how high he will go.” 

"Would you have me marry him. Papa?” said Myrtle, 
pressing her cheek to his. "Would you have me marry a 
man I do not love,' for the sake of the honors which he may 
some day attain?” 

"No, Myrtle, God forbid.” 

"Papa,” said Myrtle, still clasping his neck, with her 
cheek pressed to his, "Mr. Sagamore is very wise, is he 
not ?” 

"Yes, my dear — brainy you mean.” 

"And ambitious?” 

"Yes, Myrtle.” 

"And also very masterful?” 

"I believe so — ambitious men usually are.” 

"He is. Papa, but as wise as he is, he does not know 
your daughter; as ambitious as he is, and as masterful, he 
will never win nor conquer her. Oh, I can see it all now. 
He would not consider his wife at all save as a lesser part 
of him. A being to help him in his upward climb, and one 


IS LARGELY DEVOTED TO MR. SAGAMORE. 515 

who should find all her joy, her happiness, in contemplating 
his greatness.’’ 

''There are women, my dear, who would be content 
with a lot such as you describe.” 

"No doubt. Papa, but your loving daughter is not one 
of them.” 

"But upon what do you base such a supposition. Myr- 
tle?” 

"Principally upon the fact that he went to you in place 
of coming to me. I am in his opinion a child, a nonentity, 
not worth considering.” 

"But Myrtle, how can you say that? Was it not right 
for him to come to me before addressing himself to you?” 

"No, Papa, it was not. I am capable of deciding for 
myself. It is my right to so decide, but he goes to you as 
if I were a child whose opinion is secondary. I am at my 
own disposal, and a man who would win me must address 
himself to me.” 

"But, my dear sweet child,” said her father, gazing at 
her in helpless wonder, "I am sure he meant no wrong, no 
disrespect, no derogation to you in this.” 

"Then, Papa, he has not the right instincts.” 

"It was his respect for me that prompted him to come 
to me.” 

"Then his respect for you is greater than his love for 

me.” 

"But, Myrtle—” 

"Dear Papa, forgive me, but indeed a girl should be 
considered and consulted first of all in a matter so import- 
ant; but Mr. Sagamore counts upon your influence over me 
to assist him, and — and — I detest him.” 

"Well, I wash my hands of it,” said poor Mr. Watter- 
son. "You are an incomprehensible little girl. Myrtle.” 

"Papa, do you believe that I love you?” 

"Yes, Myrtle,” he replied. 

"Do you not know that I reverence you above all the 
world?” 

"I believe so. Myrtle.” 

"Then you know that the slightest disrespect shown to 
you by any man would wound me very deeply, but I must 


THE WATTERSONS. 


516 

nevertheless insist that this is my right. This is the latter 
end of the nineteenth century, you know, and women are 
no longer given away like children, nor bargained for like 
chattels. I would not marry any man of whom you disap- 
proved, because I know that your disapproval would have a 
very solid foundation. Nevertheless, I say Mr. Sagamore 
should first have come to me, and of me learned my wishes, 
my sentiments and inclinations, and if successful in his suit, 
it would then have been his place to go to you for your 
sanction and approval. I am not a child nor a doll, but a 
woman, and as such, man’s equal. As a maiden. Papa, I am 
man’s superior, because he must sue to win me. When I am 
won,” continued Myrtle, holding up her finger to command 
his close attention, ''when I am won. Papa, I will acknowl- 
edge myself to be the lesser half of a splendid whole.” 

"Not the lesser half. Myrtle,” cried her father, smiling, 
"Surely, surely not the lesser half, my dear !” 

"Yes, Papa,” said Myrtle, blushing, "the lesser half. I 
do not say that I would have done so a year ago, or even six 
months ago, but something has happened since then, some- 
thing that teaches me so.” 

The something had happened one moonlight night be- 
neath a giant oak within the shadow of the old gray house. 
There upon a spot forever after hallowed in her memory, 
her stalwart lover had mastered her — had wrung from her 
reluctant lips the sweet confession that made her forever his. 
And on the following day he had shown himself as superior 
to her in strength of character as in physical force. Yes, she 
would be the lesser half as she humbly owned, glorying in 
the manly strength of him to whom in her heart she had 
sworn allegiance. 

"Now, Papa, good night,” said Myrtle, kissing him 
sweetly. "Never, never think of Mr. Sagamore as a possi- 
ble husband for your daughter.” 

"Poor John,” said Mr. Watterson softly, when he was 
alone. "Poor, poor John.” 

Myrtle hastened to her chamber, with burning cheeks, 
and there for fully five minutes remained motionless, stand- 
ing in a flood of light before her mirror, gazing at the re- 
flection of herself behind the glass. Mr. Sagamore loved 


IS LARGELY DEVOTED TO MR. SAGAMORE. 517 

her and sought her hand in marriage. Mr. Sagamore, who 
aspired to the highest honors in the land, and who if there 
is aught in physiognomy would surely attain them. The 
thought was enough to make proud the heart of any girl. 
What was there about her to attract men of such widely 
varying character as this strong, ambitious politician, and 
the weak and womanish Elmer? And there was Sherman, 
her incomparable Sherman. And Richard, too, had loved 
her ! Alas ! She rarely thought of Richard now. 

''You are not in the least little bit beautiful,'’ said Myr- 
tle frowning at her reflection in the glass; "and so you 
needn't be vain. Silly! Oh, dear! I wish — I wish" she 
paused and smiling a little to herself, and blushing guiltily, 
[ this creature of vanity bent forward and tenderly kissed her 
; image in the glass. "I wish, that — you — were — Sherman," 

’ she said and sighing, turned away. 


CHAPTER XL. 


IN WHICH ELMER RETURNS. 

It was with mingled feelings of pleasure and apprehen- 
sion that Elmer, after an absence of seven months, stepped 
into his father’s bank. Pleasure he felt at the thought of 
meeting the man whom he loved and esteemed above all 
other men, and apprehension lest the reception awaiting 
him should be one of violence and anger. He went in, how- 
ever, without hesitation, and nodding lightly to Ainsworth 
and Johnson in passing, he presented himself with his old 
winning smile before the eyes of the banker. 

“Ah !” said Mr. Marblemore, rising slowly, “Is it you, 
Elmer?” 

He said it awkwardly and stood holding the young 
man’s hand without pressing it. Upon Elmer’s return from 
college the banker had folded the boy in his arms with a 
bear-like hug, and Elmer felt the difference keenly. 

“Yes, Daddy,” he said in subdued tones. 

“You are looking well,” said Mr. Marblemore, lamely. 

This was very true. Travel and occupation had agreed 
with Elmer. His color was good. His cheeks had filled 
out. He was a bit broader in the shoulders, and had come 
to carry himself with an assured confidence which, added to 
the negligent grace that came natural to him, improved him 
very much. 

“Daddy, if you will sit down, I should like to. Thank 
you. Did my work please you. Daddy ?” 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Marblemore, coldly. 

“Daddy,” said Elmer softly, placing his slender white 
hand upon the banker’s enormous paw as it rested limply 
upon the desk. “Are you very angry with me?” 

“I am sorry for what has happened, Elmer,” replied the 
banker, passing his hand across his bald head. “You acted 
like an infernal, heartless villain, sir, toward that poor girl” 

“I know it. Daddy, I know it well, but you should re- 




IN WHICH ELMER RETURNS. 519 

member that what I did was done in the old days. Do you 
wish me to marry her, Daddy?'’ 

He regarded the banker anxiously while awaiting his 
reply. He did not mean to marry little Rosie, but it would 
do him no harm to intimate a humble submission to his 
father's will. 

'‘Elmer," said Mr. Marblemore, slowly, "did Rosie 
yield to you upon persuasion, or did you go through a kind 
of ceremony as is said, making her believe that she was your 
wife ?" 

Elmer became red and pale by turns, as he met the 
banker's bull-like gaze. 

"If she surrendered her womanhood to gratify, a pas- 
sion merely, she is unworthy the name of honest woman," 
continued the banker huskily. "If trusting to a promise to 
marry, she forgot all womanly chastity, she would dishonor 
the name of wife, but if she gave herself to you honestly, be- 
lieving herself to be your wife, tnen by the God in Heaven, 
boy," said Mr. Marblemore, bringing his fist down with ter- 
rific force, "you shall marry her or leave my house with the 
clothes you wear and nothing more! Answer me!" 

There was something so terrible in this mighty man's 
anger that Elmer quailed before his glance and trembled 
like a woman. 

"Daddy," he said with a gasp, "don't be violent." 

"I do not mean to be, Elmer," said Mr. Marblemore, in 
a quieter voice, "but I must know and at once. I have the 
word of a woman to whom falsehood is impossible that this 
is so — that you went through some sham ceremony, making 
this young woman believe herself married to you. I do not 
doubt Aunt Sadie's word, but I do doubt the word of the 
girl, as I have reason to believe that she told different 
stories. General Hamilton, to whom she went for protect- 
ion, came to me demanding justice for her on the ground 
that you had seduced her under promise of marriage. Now 
what have you to say?" 

"I practiced no deception. Daddy — made no promise," 
said Elmer, pale to the lips. 

"Then the girl has made her bed and she must lie on 


520 


THE WATTERSONS. 


it; but the thing has spoiled all my pleasure and pride in , 

you/' I 

''I will regain your esteem, Daddy," said Elmer eagerly, i 
“I know now what a great man you are, and I am proud of | 
the name you have given me." i 

''Things will never be the same between us, Elmer," ' 
said the banker, sadly. 

"Oh, yes they will. Daddy," said Elmer, with confi- 
dence. "Come Daddy, don't look so down-hearted. We 
can’t all be as good and pure as you are. Most of us have 
got to sow a crop of wild oats before settling down finally. 

I am done now. I am deeply in earnest. I mean to work." 

He* then launched into an account of his travels with 
Davidson. Told of the sights he had seen, of the men he 
had met, and of the many little things they had encountered j 
by the way, mingling so much drollery with the whole that ! 
Mr. Marblemore first smiled, then chuckled, then roared I 
with laughter. 

"Stop, you rogue," he said at last. "You do not de- I 
serve to be listened to or forgiven. Ah, Elmer, I wish you j 
had not done this thing. Do you know she is very ill? | 
Poor little thing." He sat for a moment in thoughtful si- j 
lence, drumming upon the desk with his thick fingers. "She i 
must be provided for. If she will go away upon her recov- , 
ery, she shall never want as long as she lives. I wish — I ' 
wish she had not gone to the General. Do you know of the | 
action taken against you by the Young Woman's Club?" 

"Yes," said Elmer, contemptuously. "The newspapers 
m^de a big enough to-do about it. That is all it will amount 
to." ; 

"Think so? I have paid little attention to it all. Can- 
didly my sympathy is with the women. I think you had best 
make yourself scarce for a while. You can take a berth in 
the Chicago house or in New York if you prefer ; but go and 
see your mother now ; she is very anxious about her 
darling." 

He did not know that Elmer had prepared himself for 
this meeting by a hurried visit to his mother, nor did Elmer 
enlighten him now. He went into the street with a smile, 
and pausing in the door he stood for a moment lightly ' 


IN WHICH ELMER RETURNS. 


521 


twirling his slender cane. He was as usual elegantly attired 
and presented a handsome appearance standing enframed 
in the wide doorway. 

'‘Well, that’s done, anyhow,'’ he murmured, lighting a 
cigarette in the leisurely fashion that characterized him. 
“The old boy will come around in time. The best thing I 
can do is to go straight to Myrtle while my luck holds, and 
get the first meeting over with. Sweet Myrtle ! God ! how 
I love that girl ! This must be the real thing or it couldn’t 
have held me so long. Tm bewitched as sure as fate !’’ 

He nodded brightly to two young ladies, old friends 
who were passing, but they swept by him without answer- 
ing his greeting save by a contemptuous glance. He looked 
after them in the greatest surprise. 

"The devil ! Am I so much changed ?" he muttered, 
"or didn’t they see me?” 

He felt vaguely uneasy as he made his way around 
the square. The streets were alive with people, for they 
were in the thick of the political campaign, and the leaders 
of both parties were exceedingly active. He heard the 
strains of a band in the distance, and the shouts of a multi- 
tude came faintly from the rallying ground. People were 
hurrying thither, crowds of them, laughing and chatting 
gayly. He thought that they glanced at him oddly in 
passing, and this reflection came upon him with something 
like a shock. Very few replied to his greetings, and their 
bows were stiff and constrained. No one sought speech 
with him. None paused to shake him bj^ the hand. 

All this astonished him. As he had told his father, he 
was well aware of the publicity given to his latest escapade, 
but he was far from expecting dark glances on that account. 
Rather, he had returned prepared in all modesty to disclaim 
the merit of the thing. It would be difficult, perhaps, to 
convey a clear comprehension of the kind of reasoning upon 
which this feeling of smug complacency was founded. In 
the days of his greatest depravity this young man had met 
with smiles on every hand. He had been hailed as leader 
by those of his stripe, and slyly winked at by the more 
sedate. He had been kindly received by staid matrons who, 
though they shook a playfully remonstrant finger at him, 


522 


THE WATTERSONS. 


yet intrusted their daughters to his care and in every pos- 
sible way encouraged him to a closer intimacy with them. 
With all this in mind, it was not unnatural for a young man 
whose point of view was utterly warped to suppose 
that this late notoriety would rather increase his per- 
sonal popularity than otherwise. The action taken by 
the Woman’s Progressive Union provoked his laughter. 
Why, he knew all the girls comprising that body. He had 
known them from childhood. He had played with them, 
danced with them, joked and chaffed them for years, and 
in pure fun had proposed marriage to half of them and 
been accepted. He had laughed heartily when first their 
action had come to his knowledge. It was all a joke, of 
course. Madcap Fanny owed him one, and in this way 
she had repaid him for many a merry evening’s fun. But, 
to his intense astonishment and disgust, the joke was taken 
seriously by the public. The young women were warmly 
commended on every hand, and he was held up to the public 
scorn. He had disliked this notoriety intensely, and this 
feeling of disgust he had thought rather a fine thing, a 
proof positive of his reformation. He had returned re- 
solved to live down the past. His experience on the road 
had strengthened in him a taste for business. He was de- 
termined to go deeply into his father’s affairs and show 
himself worthy of the great man’s trust and esteem, hoping, 
moreover, by his future life and work to redeem himself in 
the eyes of her who, by his past, he had without doubt 
grievously offended. 

His passion for Myrtle had remained unchanged, or 
changed only in that it had grown deeper with time and 
absence. He had written her a long letter in the beginning, 
and she had replied to it in a spirit of charming camaraderie, 
though she spoke mainly of Rosie, telling him of her sorrow 
and seclusion, and begging him for a word of love for the 
poor girl, promising to convey any message to her that he 
might be pleased to send. He wrote no more. He dared 
not, in view of his impending exposure. And so time had 
passed and the exposure had come, and then the uproar 
produced by the action of the club, of which Myrtle was 
the head. That Myrtle had taken any part in that matter 


IN WHICH ELMER RETURNS. 


523 


he did not believe. Had she not especially denied the 
responsibility of the thing, placing it where it belonged, on 
Madcap Fanny’s shoulders? He believed sincerely that she 
loved him, for this young man in his heart thought himself 
irresistible, and, hugging this delusion to his soul, he was 
convinced that Myrtle’s disclaimer was meant for his eyes 
alone. So he had accepted it, at least, and he had looked 
forward to seeing her, not doubting that by a proper show 
of humility and penitence he could win her forgiveness. 

And now he met with cold glances everywhere ! That 
his father should show anger was in the nature of things 
to be expected. That Myrtle would be indignant was 
wholly natural, seeing that she loved him and longed to 
marry him, but that these, his every-day acquaintances, 
should actually betray hostility toward him was really a 
little too much ! Elmer quite swelled with indignation. 
He held his head high and cast haughty glances around. 
This did not help matters at all. On the contrary, those 
who before had merely looked askance at the young man 
now sneered with open scorn. Men paused to stare after 
him ; women looked another way ; boys hooted derisively ; 
children pointed at him. A crowd began to gather at his 
heels. Elmer pushed on, feeling ill at ease. 

He had nearly reached the corner of the fashionable 
street in which he lived, when General Hamilton turned it, 
coming towards him. The old warrior was, as usual, 
! deeply absorbed in an exchange, which he held folded to 
; the width of a column. In his irresolution whether to 
advance upon a foe so formidable or beat a hasty retreat, 
Elmer paused for one moment, and, looking up, the General 
espied him and stopped in his tracks. The spectators held 
their breath. For one moment the General glared, then, 
dropping his paper, he took a firm grip of his stick, and, 
bringing it up across his shoulder with a furious gesture, 
he advanced upon the shrinking young man. To avoid him, 
Elmer had either to step out into the gutter or turn and 
run for it. He chose the gutter. Without glancing to the 
left or right, the General marched on, his thick mustache 
curling with scorn. Elmer got up on the walk again, and, 
amid the hooting of the crowd, turned hastily into the side 


524 THE WATTERSONS. 

street, which, owing to the political rally at the other end 
of the town, was almost deserted. 

“What the devil does this mean?’' muttered the young 
man in mingled rage and wonder. 

The General’s wrath he could understand, but not the 
scorn of the crowd. He did not know that the villainy he 
had practiced on poor little Rosie had for many days been 
the principal topic of conversation in the city homes, in the 
shops, offices, stores, in saloons and on street corners, and 
that public sentiment, stimulated by the action of the young 
women, Rosie’s friends, overwhelmingly condemned him. 
He walked on in a kind of daze. He bowed to Billy Boyle, 
passing in his surrey. Billy nodded affably enough, but 
Hannah, who sat beside her husband, bridled up and glared 
at him in speechless indignation. Mrs. Hammersmith 
bowed very nicely, but Mrs. Ferguson and Mrs. Sawyer, 
approaching in company, crossed the street to avoid him. 
The Rev. Mortimer Ringrose paused to shake him by the 
hand, but Mr. Traviston, his brother minister, deliberately 
put his hands behind him, giving the young man a glance 
of cold contempt. Father Fargo, whom he met shortly 
after, absolutely paused and snorted at him. Dr. Fairfield 
cut him dead, and Grace Fairfield, his niece, walking arm 
in arm with Fanny Rowland, cast down her eyes and 
passed him by with blushing cheeks; while Fanny, staring 
him squarely in the face, cut him dead. He had lifted his 
hat to greet the young ladies, and had paused, prepared to 
reproach them in mimic anger, and he was left standing 
with his hat in his hand while the girls walked on. 

“What does this mean?” he muttered for the third 
time. “Are they really down on me?” 

He felt extremely foolish and very angry and deeply 
indignant, for his vanity, the largest part of him, was 
wounded. He went on with a pouting expression, meeting 
the eyes of all with a half-challenging, half-supplicating 
glance. He passed his father’s mansion, walking rapidly, 
turned in toward the old gray house of the Wattersons, 
and rang the bell. Franklin came to the door. Elmer 
stepped past him into the hall, and then, without hesitation, 
into the parlor, Franklin following. 


IN WHICH ELMER RETURNS. 525 

Miss Watterson at home?’’ he asked, imperiously. 

^‘No,” replied Franklin, shortly. 

Where is she?” asked Elmer. 

''She called at General Hamilton’s to see Miss Rose- 
wood, who is very sick,” replied Franklin, gravely. 

Elmer scowled at the man, who stood negligently 
enough with his hand resting on the back of a chair. 

"I do not want Aunt Sadie,” he said, sharply, "but Miss 
Myrtle.” 

Franklin bowed without a word. 

"Is she in?” 

"Yes.” 

"Where is she?” 

"In the library.” 

Elmer started toward the dining-room, off which the 
library branched. 

"Wait,” said Franklin, "I’ll see if she cares to see you.” 

Elmer flung him a curse, without pausing. Knocking 
at the library door, he opened it and went in. Myrtle, who 
was sitting at her desk in the little study which she had 
arranged in one corner, looked up quickly from her writing, 
and, seeing who it was, she started to her feet. Elmer 
advanced with outstretched hand, smiling brightly, but she 
retreated, holding both hands behind her, coloring deeply. 
Elmer paused like one thunderstruck. 

"Won’t you shake hands with me. Myrtle?” he said, 
reproachfully. 

"No, sir; I will not,” she replied, hot with anger. "I 
am surprised at your effrontery in coming here.” 

Elmer regarded her in deep dismay. He had not ex- 
pected such a reception from Myrtle. Far from it. That 
she would be indignant, even angry, he had expected; but 
he had never dreamed that she would absolutely refuse to 
take his hand! He had thought that a proper show of 
humility and repentance would win her forgiveness, and 
that he could then continue his wooing where he had left 
off and carry it to ultimate success. He had reasoned it 
out scores of times — her reception of him — her sorrow and 
anger — his penitence and humble plea for pardon — her 
forgiveness and his triumph. Heavens 1 did he not know 


526 


THE WATTERSONS. 


scores of girls who would receive his attentions eagerly — 
the more eagerly because of his madcap escapades ? 

“I am very sorry, Myrtle,’’ he said, feebly. ‘'I did not 
think that you would meet me like this.” 

She did not reply, ‘but stood shrinking from him be- 
hind her chair, with her voluminous skirts gathered in her 
hand, as if she dreaded his contaminating touch. Elmer 
saw, and marveled to see on that sweet, gentle face an ex- 
pression of hauteur and anger. Blushing now, now pale, 
with trembling lips and shrinking body, she stood gazing 
upon the wretch, with eyes enlarged by fear, disdain and 
anger. 

“Myrtle, dear Myrtle, do not look at me like that,” 
cried Elmer, advancing a step in his eagerness, but pausing 
once more as, with a movement of horror, she shrank 
further from him. “I hardly know what to say to win your 
forgiveness. I know you are angry with me, and you 
have a right to be — you of all people! But believe me. 
Myrtle, I am not the man now I was in those days. You 
know how wild I was and headstrong. It is to you I owe 
my reform, but then that for which you condemn me now 
was already done and could not be undone. I am very 
sorry. Myrtle.” 

He paused, but again she did not speak. Her indigna- 
tion had changed to strong disgust, which could be read in 
the curling lip and disdainful glance. 

“If you knew the bitter moments I have passed re- 
flecting upon the evil I have done, believe me. Myrtle, you 
would pity and forgive me,” continued Elmer, made bolder 
by her silence. “Myrtle, I never really loved any woman 
but you. I loved you always. It was this love that 
turned me from my wild life. Do not, then, turn from me 
now, dear Myrtle. Forgive me; marry me, and help me 
to begin a new life. I will redeem the past by a lifetime 
of earnest devotion. Oh, do not look at me so !” he cried, 
throwing out his hands with a movement of despair. “Tell 
me to go away for a while, only be kind to me. I know 
I should not have come so soon; but — but I was so sure of 
your kindness, Myrtle, so certain that you would under- 
stand and forgive. Am I so much worse than other men? 


IN WHICH ELMER RETURNS. 527 

Myrtle, I am asking you to marry me — to marry me, 
Myrtle. What more can a man do?'’ 

His eager passion lent to his manner a quality of sin- 
cerity and ardor that would have moved to pity any heart 
not wrung by the sufferings of his victim. But Myrtle 
saw in him only the vile seducer of her friend. In her 
heart there was no room for aught but disgust and burning 
anger. Once or twice she had opened her lips to speak, 
but he had pressed on with an eagerness that admitted of 
no interruption. She stood, now that he had ceased speak- 
ing, gazing at him in speechless indignation. That he 
should have come to her, this monster of selfishness — to 
her. Myrtle Watterson, with a declaration of love! Oh, it 
was too, too horrible! She could have wept for shame, 
but for the passion of anger that swept through her, drying 
up her tears and depriving her for moments of the power of 
speech. 

''Marry you !" she said at last, in a voice scarce recog- 
nizable to herself. "I would rather die! You are a thing 
so utterly vile in my eyes that no words of mine can express 
the contempt in which I hold you. I despise you ! I loathe 
the sight of you ! I scorn your proposal ! The day is past 
when a woman will stoop to such as you !" 

She stood, all pale with anger, half leaning towards 
him, her hand still holding aside her skirts to avoid his 
contaminating touch, although he stood quite the length of 
the great desk away from her. But with the last word 
she released her dress, which swelled around her in graceful 
folds, and still gazing at him with a glance expressive of 
the deepest loathing, she groped above her head for the bell- 
cord. She caught it after an ineffectual attempt or two, 
and pulled it once, twice, thrice and again, the last time 
with such violence that the cord parted overhead and came 
dangling down about her shoulders. 

Franklin came in in hot haste. . He saw Elmer stand- 
ing there in a kind of daze, gazing across at Myrtle, who 
had turned her back upon him, and now stood with trem- 
bling fingers trying to free herself from the entangling 
folds of the cord. Franklin understood it all at a glance. 
He opened wide the door and stood aside, clearing his 


528 


THE WATTERSONS. 


throat with a stentorian ''Ahem Elmer, awakening 
from the trance of astonishment into which the girl’s un- 
expected violence had thrown him, turned around at the 
sound, and encountered Franklin’s significant glance. He 
paused irresolutely. Franklin again cleared his throat, 
even more vehemently than before, and, with a last agonized 
glance at Myrtle, the young man turned and went out, 
Franklin following. 1 

Myrtle, leaning her arms against the window, bowed ; 
her head upon them and burst into a passion of weeping. j 

Elmer, stupefied with surprise, walked very slowly and ' 
with his head down, so that Franklin, who preceded him 
with great alacrity, had thrown wide the front door ere the 
young man had half crossed the parlor. Aunt Sadie came 
in as Franklin stood waiting with the door in his hand, 
and smiling at the man, whose somber face brightened at 
sight of her, she broke at once into an account of how she , 
had found her friends. She went into the parlor, and stand- 
ing before a great mirror near the door, she proceeded to 
remove her hat and pat her beautiful hair into position, 
talking all the time with great volubility, not doubting that 
Franklin had followed her into the room as was his wont. 
He was more a friend than a servant, was Franklin, and 
indeed, so were all the domestics in that house. Mrs. Os- 
borne was nearly recovered, and Mrs. Danforth’s baby was 
doing oh so nicely, and Mrs. Ringrose, poor thing, was 
sick again, and — 

"Aunt Sadie,” said Elmer, interrupting her. 

She turned around, a good deal startled, and stared at 
Elmer as he stood before her, pale but smiling his old, win- 
ning smile, and holding out both hands to her in greeting. 
Aunt Sadie put her hands behind her, as Myrtle had done, 
and kept them there, retreating a step or two like a child who 
fears that violence will be used upon her. 

"You, too. Aunt Sadie!” said Elmer, stung almost to 
madness by what he conceived to be his ill usage. "I didn t 
think though all the world turned upon me that you would 
do so.” 

"I am very, very sorry, Elmer, but I cannot take your 
hand after what you have done.” 


IN WHICH ELMER RETURNS. 


529 


Tears welled up into her eyes and rolled slowly down 
her cheeks, as she looked at Elmer and marked his keen 
distress. 

^'Why, why,’’ he cried, ^'am I any worse than a dozen 
men whom I can name ? Good God ! One would think that 
I was a murderer!” 

“Elmer, you have spoken an awful word. Pray God 
it may not prove a true one,” said Aunt Sadie, very gravely. 

“What do you mean ?” asked Elmer, startled by her sol- 
emn tone. 

“Elmer, you wronged little Rosie,” said Aunt Sadie, 
sorrowfully, “a girl with the mind of a child, but a loving, 
loyal, constant heart. She is not well, Elmer. She is very 
ill. She is dying, slowly but surely, and all for the want of 
the love and care which you owe to her. She is your wife, 
Elmer, in the eyes of God you are her husband. She is 
waiting for you, eagerly waiting and hoping that you will 
come to her. Come, Elmer, come and make little Rosie 
happy.” 

She stretched forth her hands in earnest entreaty as 
she stood before him. His glance wavered and fell before 
those streaming eyes ; he looked down, pouting. 

“She is dying, Elmer,” said Aunt Sadie. “As sure as I 
stand before you, she will die before the summer is out, 
if you do not go to her. Come, darling, you know I have 
always loved you dearly because you were so sweet and 
winning, and oh so good as a little child. I love you now, 
indeed, indeed I do, only I cannot take your hand and kiss 
you as I used, while that poor child is dying. Will you not 
come, dear Elmer? She has given you all that woman 
holds dear. She has borne all the shame, the guilt, the 
I pain and misery, without once complaining of you, and 
|, without ceasing to love you, and to believe in you. Is not 
this worth some little love in return? Won’t you come with 
me, darling Elmer?” 

' All that a sweet, loving woman could say she said, 

standing there before him with clasped hands and streaming 
eyes. Elmer answered not a word, but stood looking down, 
without a sign of softening or of yielding. 


530 


THE WATTERSONS. 


^'Darling Elmer, won’t you come?” pleaded Aunt Sadie, 
as he continued silent. 

''No,” he replied, roughly. "What do you take me 
for?” 

"A man, Elmer,” replied Aunt Sadie, very low. "I took 
you for a man.” 

"Bah ! You’re all down on me,” he cried, peevishly. 
"I don’t believe she’s dying; anyhow, it’s nothing to me. 
Let me alone.” 

Sick at heart Aunt Sadie stepped back, and Elmer 
walked past her, holding his head very high. At the outer 
door, where Eranklin still stood waiting, he met Mr. Wat- 
terson. The big man paused as if thunderstruck at sight of 
Elmer in that house. 

"What are you doing here?” he demanded in a deep 
voice. 

"I — I — called — to — see — Miss Watterson,” stammered 
Elmer, paling to the lips. 

Mr. Watterson glared at him for a moment in speech- 
less wrath. Elmer, utterly cowed by that terrible glance, 
shrank limp and pale against the wall behind. 

"Eranklin,” said Mr. Watterson, quietly turning away, 
"show this man out; and should he call again kick him off 
the premises.” 

"Yes, sir,” responded Eranklin, with alacrity. "Shall 
I do it now, sir?” 

"No, not now.” 

"Sorry, sir. This way out,” cried Eranklin, turning upon 
Elmer, with a significant wave of his hand. 

And Elmer slunk away. 

Smarting with rage and shame, the young man hurried 
homeward and burst with sullen violence into the small 
sitting-room where his mother spent most of her waking 
hours. She was not there now, however. Clara sat softly 
strumming on the piano. 

"You look hot, Elmer,” she said, smiling. 

"Yes,” he replied, in a surly voice. 

"Was Papa cross?” 

"Not very.” 

"Pooh, you mustn’t mind him. He’ll soon come around.” 


IN WHICH ELMER RETURNS. 


531 


A sudden idea flashed into Elmer’s mind as^he looked at 
her. Why not marry Clara, and thus at once please his 
father and show his scorn of the woman who had scorned 
him ? But would she accept him ? He believed so. 

'^Clara,” he said, sitting down beside her, ‘'you know 
Daddy’s wish in regard to us, and Mama’s earnest hope?” 

Clara rustled her music sheets a bit, then slowly turned 
around and looked at him. 

“Yes, I know,” she said. 

“Shall we please them in this matter, Clara?” 

She did not reply at once, but sat regarding him 
thoughtfully. 

“You are not enthusiastic, Elmer.” 

“Shall I go down on my knees and swear that I adore 
you?” said Elmer, bitterly. “You know you would not 
believe me if I did.” 

“No. I wouldn’t believe you.” 

“Then why not be sensible ?” 

“What do you want?” 

“I am asking you to marry me.” 

“To please Papa and Mama?” 

“Yes, if you will have it so. I don’t suppose that you 
particularly care for anyone?” 

He paused, suddenly recalling her attachment to Sher- 
man. He eyed her curiously while awaiting her reply, won- 
dering how that afifair had ended. 

“No,” said Clara, looking away a little wistfully. “No, * 
I don’t care for anyone in particular.” 

“How about Sherman?” he asked. 

“He did not love me,” said Clara, coloring deeply. 

“Did he say so?” 

“Yes, I asked him.” 

“You asked him !” he cried, surveying her in astonish- 
ment. 

“Yes,” she replied, with calmness. “He loves Myrtle, 
and Myrtle loves him.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“He told me of his love, and in the light of that 
knowledge I could recall a thousand things to prove that 
of Myrtle.” 


532 


THE WATTERSONS. 


He took a turn or two through the room, in great irri- 
tation. Why was it that these two young women had loved 
Sherman and not him? He could win the love of a certain 
kind of women with ease, but he had never in his career 
awakened a passion in the heart of any deep thinking 
woman. He could see the wide difference between Myrtle 
and Clara, but he knew that however small of soul the latter i 
became by contrast with the former, she still was far superior 
in mind to childish little Rosie and other women who had i 
favored him. Clara sat regarding him listlessly, indifferent, 
apparently, whether he continued his proposal or not. 

''Well, Clara,'’ he said pausing before her, having ap- < 
parently come to some conclusion. "What do you say? 
You know me thoroughly. What I have been, and what 1 
am. Shall we marry?” i 

"Yes, we might as well.” j 

Her indifference struck him hard. /! 

"You don't appear over-gratified,” he said. j 

"Let us understand each other, Elmer. I am doing this | 
first, to please my father and your mother, and second, be- i 
cause I am really indifferent whom I marry. Marriage 
either awakens love or kills it, and, as we have none to kill, : 
we may reasonably expect that our union will beget a re- 
gard between us. If so, all will be well. If not, we can live | 
apart. Is that understood?” 

"Yes.” 

"I had different ideas once, I own,” said Clara, wist- 
fully ; "but they are gone forever. If I cannot please myself, I 
I will at least please my good, kind father, and make him i 
happy.” 

Mrs. Marblemore, when informed of their purpose, 
shook her head, showing little pleasure in the promised 
union. Mr. Marblemore received the intelligence with 
mingled feelings of sorrow and exultation. "Time was, 
Elmer,” he said, "when I would have been overjoyed at 
this, but now I am almost tempted to withhold my consent. 
Clara deserves a better husband, and you do not deserve 
so good a wife. However, if you are both resolved, I 
have had this hope in my heart too long to say no. Only, 
let it be soon.” 

And so it was settled. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


A MORTAL BLOW. 

Clara being entirely indifferent and Elmer feeling his 
position uncomfortable, the wedding day was set but three 
weeks distant. Mr. Marblemore in view of what had passed 
and sympathizing as he had said with public sentiment, 
suppressed his natural love of ostentatious display, and the 
preparations which went briskly on were all on a quiet scale. 
Elmer kept himself very close during those three weeks. 
He hardly ventured out at all, and when he did he was sure 
to meet with some unpleasant reminder of popular con- 
tempt. Once he was assaulted near his home, and his 
assailant, young Thomas, a drug clerk, was hailed as a 
hero by the populace. Elmer became desperately afraid of 
the public street. He wanted to abridge the term of wait- 
ing agreed upon ; but Clara refused to entertain the thought 
for an instant. Neither would she consent to have the 
ceremony performed elsewhere, as Elmer urged. She went 
about as usual, coldly confirming the reports of her con- 
templated marriage. She cared nothing for public opinion, 
and she wished to show* it. The dark glances of her old- 
time friends, the scornful sneers of the general public, the 
satiric flings of the General, the grave disapproval of Mrs. 
Butler, she bore them all with apparent equanimity. But 
beneath her cold exterior her heart ached bitterly. All the 
future looked dark to her eyes. Not only did she despise 
the cowardly spirit, the foul character of him whom she 
had chosen, but he personally was so repulsive to her that 
the touch of his hand made her shudder. She looked for- 
ward with absolute horror to her wedding day, but sus- 
tained by a mistaken pride, she never for one moment 
thought of receding from the bargain she had made. 

Rosie, meanwhile, continued entirely unconscious of 
these things going on round about her. She knew nothing 
of Elmer’s return, and in silence, but with faith unshaken. 


534 


THE WATTERSONS. 


she awaited his home coming, confident that he would come 
to her and take her away to live with him happily ever 
after. She did not grow in strength as rapidly as Aunt 
Sadie could wish, neither did she become noticeably weaker. 
Mam Sue carried her each morning to the great armchair 
beside the window, where she remained all day, gazing out 
with wistfully pathetic eyes. She had Carlo for company, 
or Mam Sue, or Aunt Sadie. Dr. Fairfield looked grave 
when Aunt Sadie questioned him as to the condition of her 
little charge. He shook his head, declaring that there was 
nothing at all the matter with her. By all the rules of 
nature and all the arts he knew, she should of rights be 
up and about, gaining strength every hour of the day. But 
yet she continued weak and languid, and of an aspect so wan 
that Aunt Sadie was deeply troubled. The girl wanted 
an incentive and — ah, well, the good lady knew what that 
incentive was. Rosie was eating her heart out waiting for 
Elmer. 

“You should rouse yourself, Rosie,’’ urged Aunt Sadie. 
“Make an effort, my love.” 

“I will. Aunt,” Rosie replied, smiling ; “when he comes.” 

This was her one reply, her one hope, her faith, her very 
life. She never expressed the slightest curiosity about the 
outside world. She cared nothing about it. She never 
asked after her mother. Her constant thought was of 
Elmer. When her mother’s name was mentioned in her 
presence she frowned and looked away. She was happy 
with Aunt Sadie, and quite content with the General, but 
uneasy in the presence of the younger folks. She was never 
quite so happy, however, as in those hours which she 
spent alone with Mam Sue. 

That good soul was a mine of jollity, a treasure of 
bubbling humor. She would sit for hours beside her little 
pet, telling stories of the South, and her boisterous laugh 
cheered Rosie more than anything else in the world. Mam 
Sue guarded her jealously from all intrusion, admitting but 
a few favored friends, and rigorously barring out the merely 
curious. But she was not always successful in turning back 
a visitor. Sometimes one more insistent than the others got 


A MORTAL BLOW. 535 

by her, and poor little Rosie suffered a bad quarter of an 
hour. 

One day, Rosie sitting pensively beside the open window 
heard a commotion below stairs, which momentarily grew 
into a violent uproar. Mam Sue’s deep voice was raised in 
evident protest against unwelcome intrusion; a masculine 
voice replying gently, sought to soothe the angry woman, 
but all in vain. Nevertheless, the man came on regardless. 
Rosie listening feverishly, clearly distinguished the voice 
of Mr. Ringrose, and she hoped ardently that Mam Sue 
would prevail in the struggle, which every moment came 
nearer and nearer; but this was not to be. His Reverence 
came on sturdily, with Mam Sue storming at his heels, de- 
fying him all the way. 

'Tse tell Mas’ Dave,” Rosie heard her say. ‘‘Mas’ 
Dave’ll fix yo’, he will.” 

“Be quiet, my good woman,” replied Mr. Ringrose. 
“I must see Rosie. It is my duty to visit the sick. I must 
do my duty.” 

“Huh !” growled Mam Sue, “yo’ no good. Mas’ Dave 
say so. Yo’ go way now, right away. Just yo’ wait. I’se 
telafoam Mas’ Dave, dis yere minute.” 

“My good woman, be quiet; you annoy me extremely. 
I must do my duty.” 

He had gained the door by this time, though Mam Sue 
still clung to him vociferating at the top of her voice. 
Knocking gently, he did not wait for an invitation to enter, 
but came in, looking considerably flushed and flurried. 
Whirling within the door he tore himself free from the 
black woman’s detaining grasp, and closed the door in her 
very face. Shooting the bolt swiftly, he turned to little 
Rosie, who had sat in breathless agitation watching the 
struggle. Mam Sue thus peremptorily barred out, belabored 
the door with her huge fists and screamed imprecations at 
the minister. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Rosie, in this way,” said 
Mr. Ringrose, smoothing his ruffled plumage, “but I wished 
to speak to you on a matter of the greatest importance. 
The — the colored person refused to admit me; so I was 
compelled to force my way in this unseemly manner.” 


536 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Rosie gazed at him with her childishly pathetic eyes, 
but said no word in reply. He was deeply shocked by her 
appearance. So thin, so frail, so terribly wan and wasted, 
she looked as she sat before him, that he was stricken with 
a feeling of deep pity. 

‘‘Why, Rosie !” he said, throwing up his white hands 
in genuine horror. “I had no idea — ’’ 

“Come out o' dar yoV’ interposed Mam Sue from 
without. “Don' lis'en to him, honey. Don' yo’ min' dat bad 
man. Mas' Dave trow dat ting out his office. Mas' Dave 
did. Don' yo' lis’en to him, honey !" 

“I've come from your mother, Rosie," said Mr. Ring- 
rose, as soon as he could make himself heard above the 
uproar outside. “She is very sorry for what she did." 

Rosie gazed at him with parted lips, but said nothing. 
Mam Sue belabored the door and screamed unceasingly. 

“Jes' yo' wait," she cried, wrathfully. “Ah’ll send fo' 
Mas' Dave dis yere blessed minute. Ah will. Jes' yo' 
wait. Mas' Dave 'till fix yo' sah. Ah ring him up and tela- 
foam him right away dis minute." 

His Reverence turned uneasily to the door. All was 
quiet now. Mam Sue could be heard shuffling away in 
the distance. 

“She wants you to come home, Rosie," continued Mr. 
Ringrose, stroking his silky mustache with shaking fingers. 
“You must come home, child. You should not stay here any 
longer. Fie ! fie ! Rosie, to live alone under the roof of 
a bachelor ! I am shocked ! It is very wrong. Your place 
is at home with your mother." 

“I'll never go home any more," replied Rosie, quiver- 
ing. “Never! Mama never loved me. She drove me out 
in the night and the General took me in. It isn’t wrong for 
me to stay with the good General, else Aunt Sadie would 
tell me. Please go away," she continued, agitatedly. “I’m 
not strong and — and I don't like you. Please go at once." 

“But your mother is nearly crazy, Rosie," said His 
Reverence, rubbing his white hands together nervously. 
“She's getting reckless, she — I won't be responsible for what 
happens if you don't go to her. Her neighbors shun her, 
nobody will speak to her." He paused and stood for a 


I 


A MORTAL BLOW. 537 

moment in a listening attitude. From below came a sharp 
ring. '‘Won't you, Rosie?" 

"No, never," whispered Rosie, shrinking away. 

"But, listen to me. Your mother has forgiven you. I 
have talked to her. I explained to her that your fall was 
really due to the weakness of Human Nature. Nothing 
I more. We cannot help that weakness; she wants you, 

I Rosie." 

"Mr. Ringrose," said Rosie, suddenly, interrupting him 
gravely, "what is Mama to you?" 

He stared at her with blanching cheeks. She returned 
his gaze with her large, clear eyes, until he fairly squirmed. 
He backed to the door, groping behind him, still facing 
I Rosie’s eyes. There was something terrible in the steadfast 
gaze of this stricken child. 

"What is Mama to you, Mr. Ringrose?" repeated 
Rosie, softly. 

"Nothing; she is a Sister," stammered the minister. "I 
am her pastor. That is all. Won’t you come, Rosie?" 

"No." 

"But you cannot expect to stay with General Hamilton 
always, child." 

"No," replied Rosie, turning away her eyes. "Not 
always, — only — only — until he comes for me." 

"He! Who?" 

"Elmer." 

"Why, dear me, Rosie, you surely are not looking for 
him to come back to you?" 

"He will come for me as soon as his father calls him 
back," Rosie replied, agitatedly. 

"Why, why — don’t you know?" cried Mr. Ringrose. 
"Have they not told you of his return?" 

"His return !’’ gasped Rosie, staring at him with wide 
I eyed wonder. 

"Surely! He’s been back these three weeks. Why, 
i' he’s to be married on Thursday. I thought you knew." 

"Married!" whispered Rosie. "Elmer!" 

I "To be sure. He and Clara — Miss Marblemore are to 

i be married the day after tomorrow." 

"Oh, God!" 


538 


THE WATTERSONS. 


The blow was mortal. The minister saw the small, 
pathetic figure shrink up — fall together as it were, and, 
in the place where she had sat was now a little white heap, 
motionless and inert as death itself. 

'‘Rosie!'' cried the man, springing forward in deep 
distress. "Good God ! I did not mean — I did not know — " 

But at this moment Mam Sue's voice, raised to a trium- 
phant scream, came floating up from below. 

"Dis way, Marse Dave. He'ah he is. Dis way, sah." 

Mr. Ringrose waited for no more. He threw open the 
door, and rushing past Mam Sue, he plunged down the 
steps as if pursued by a thousand devils, the while Mam 
Sue, bounding into the sick chamber banged the door, and 
plumped herself upon the floor with her broad back against 
it, and sitting there, she went off into shriek after shriek 
of laughter, which shook her ponderous form like a jelly. 

"Oh yah, yah, yah, yah," shrieked the happy soul. "Ah 
fooled him ta'hble ! He's done flabbergasted to def'. Yah, 
yah, yah, yah, how he run. D'yo' see him, honey? Oh, 
Lawd Gawd! Yah, yah, yah. He run fo' a week dat fool 
man." 

But just here she became aware of Rosie's inert atti- 
tude, and she sprang to her feet with a scream that brought 
Benjy in on the run. 

"Lawd Gawd !" cried Mam Sue, frantically. "The 
chile am done killed. Quick, send fo' the Doctah, telefoam 
fo' Aunt Sadie ; run and git Marse Dave. Oh, Lawd 
Gawd !" 

She gathered up the pitiful little bundle tenderly, and 
carried it to the bed, with many guttural exclamations of 
tenderness and pity mingled with the bitterest execrations 
of the minister whose incautious revelations, she strongly 
suspected, were the cause of Rosie's swoon. She did what 
she could to bring her darling back to life, but the girl was 
still unconscious when the Doctor arrived, who quickly was 
followed by Aunt Sadie and General Hamilton. Mam Sue, 
with streaming eyes, recounted the experiences of the after- 
noon; told of Mr. Ringrose's visit, of her vain endeavors 
to bar him from the sick chamber, and Aunt Sadie had 


A MORTAL BLOW. 539 

little difficulty in divining the reason of Rosie's mortal 
stricture. 

All that night she remained beside the little patient and 
all of the next day. Rosie continued unconscious despite the 
doctor’s utmost efforts, and before evening had fallen upon 
the second day it became clear that the swoon would end 
in death. 

''She may regain consciousness towards the last,” said 
Doctor Fairfield, "but I doubt it.” 

Nevertheless in anticipation of that event, friends 
gathered around the girl in the stifling chamber, a grief- 
stricken little group, who sadly awaited those signs of re- 
turning life, which at best would be but a prelude to death. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 

There is a hush about the quaint old mansion, a solemn 
stillness that betokens death. Carlo alone is visible without. 
He stalks about uneasily, whining now, now bursting into a 
long-drawn, mournful howl that echoes far and wide. It 
is twilight, late in August. The sun has disappeared in the 
west behind a bank of clouds, from whence the heavy roll 
of thunder, and darting lightning foretell a gathering storm. 
The air is heavy and oppressive. The leaves upon the trees 
around droop dejectedly, though every now and then a gust 
of wind stirs them into violent motion. For a brief moment 
only they tremble agitatedly, then settle with whispering 
awe into their former stupor. The birds are silent, save for 
a faint chirp now and then, which is as faintly answered by 
an anxious neighbor. 

As twilight deepens into darkness, the clouds take on 
a more threatening aspect, mounting higher and higher, 
and spreading broadly as they mount, forced up and outward 
by those gusts of wind which momentarily become more 
frequent and more violent. Their threatening outline can 
now be faintly traced by the grayish blue of the sky, and now 
only by darting lightning which flashes in quick successive 
sheets of light along their outer border, each punctuated 
by a clap of thunder, which ends in a far-reaching roll and 
rumble of wonderful breadth and volume. The wind be- 
comes stronger. Violent blasts succeed the fitful gusts, strik- 
ing terror to the hearts of the feathery denizens of the 
trees, whose boughs bend and crack beneath its assailing 
fury. And then the rain ! The glorious rain ! First a few 
heavy drops as large as nuts come dancing down, and then 
a moment’s hush, and then a pouring torrent. And the 
storm is on. 

The storm is on and for an hour it rages with un- 
remitting fury, frightening the soul of Benjamin, who 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 


541 


crouches, shivering, outside the door of the chamber wherein 
i Rosie lies, surrounded by her friends. Doctor Fairfield is 
j there, and Aunt Sadie, Mr. Watterson, and the General, 
j and Myrtle, with three or four girls, Rosie’s friends. They 
are silent all, sitting or standing around the little bed on 
which Rosie lies, her face thin and pale, smiling out of the 
white pillows as if in anticipation of approaching release 
and happiness. Mam Sue, divided between her grief at 
' Rosie’s impending death, and her terror of the storm, 
crouches at the foot of the bed, rolling her eyes from the 
wan face of the dying girl to a neighboring window, in 
assaults upon which, to her excited imagination, the storm 
seems to concentrate in gusts of fearful fury. The silence 
of the room is broken now and then by the sobs of the 
women, or a muttered, ^'Lawd Gawd !” from Mam Sue, as 
the rain is dashed in furious waves against the window. 
These sounds and the deep breathing of the men are 
drowned out from time to time by the crack and roll of all- 
pervading thunder. The large and lofty room is dimly 
lighted by a lamp which stands upon a dresser, but the 
almost continual flashings of lightning bathe the chamber 
and everything within in constant radiance. 

''Rosie,” said Aunt Sadie, bending over the girl, a little 
frightened by the solemn stillness within and the raging 
uproar without. "Rosie, can you hear me, sweet?” 

A little trembling sigh answers her, and the fragile 
little hand lying on the coverlet makes a faint motion toward 
Aunt Sadie’s ample palm. 

"Can you understand me, darling?” said Aunt Sadie, 
taking the girl’s hand in hers and kissing it. 

Rosie’s lips moved, and after several fruitless essays, 
she said distinctly, "Yes, Auntie.” 

Her eyes, made very large by the sunken face, looked 
up questioningly. Aunt Sadie covered the little hand with 
kisses. 

"Is it not best to rouse her, Doctor?” she said, with a 
little frightened sob. 

"It will do no harm,” said Dr. Fairfield, gravely, "nor 
good, Sadie.” 

"She is sinking into unconsciousness again,” said Aunt 


542 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Sadie, crying more and more, ‘^and she will die if we do 
not rouse her/’ 

‘‘Death, in any case, is certain.” 

“But— but— ” 

“Do as you think best, Sadie.” 

“Talk to me, Rosie,” said Aunt Sadie, bending low over 
the waning girl. “Talk to Auntie, my sweet. See, here is 
the good General and Myrtle, and Grace, and Fanny, your 
friends.” 

Rosie’s smile deepened a little, but her eyes never left' 
Aunt Sadie’s face. Her hand pressed Aunt Sadie’s hand 
a little, and she seemed to try to draw her nearer. Aunt 
Sadie bent down to Rosie’s moving lips, but a tremendous 
shock of thunder drowned out any sounds that might have 
come from them. Mam Sue in her terror began to crawl 
on all fours towards the door, but paused and returned to 
her post when the thunder had ceased rolling. Benjamin, 
unable longer to endure the fright occasioned by the storm, 
came creeping in and joined the group in the death chamber. 

“What did you say, darling?” asked Aunt Sadie. 

The foregoing effort seemed to have revived Rosie’s 
strength. “I — love— them all. Auntie,” she murmured. 

“They know it, darling, they know it well,” said Aunt 
Sadie, kissing the little hand she held. “Can nothing be 
done. Doctor? Dear God, can nothing be done? Talk to 
me, Rosie.” 

“What is it. Auntie?” asked Rosie, speaking scarce 
without effort now. “What has happened?” 

“Nothing, darling love, nothing, dear Rosie.” 

“Why are you crying? Why is everybody here? Oh !” 
she paused suddenly, with an odd little puckering of the 
brows, gazing with curious intensity into Aunt Sadie’s 
wavering eyes. “Am I — worse. Auntie? Am I,” with a 
look of wonder, “going to die?” 

Aunt Sadie looked down at her through swimming 
tears, pressing the little hand against her cheek. 

“How strange,” murmured Rosie, staring as if awe- 
struck into Aunt Sadie’s eyes. 

“What is strange, darling?” 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 543 

‘'Me — dying! Am I really? Why, I thought it hurt 
to die, Auntie?” 

“Are you in pain, Rosie?” 

“No,” she replied, still regarding her with puckered 
brows. Suddenly the troubled frown vanished; she was 
smiling brightly. “Now, Auntie,” she murmured, “Now, 
he will come to me.” 

“Yes, darling, he will, he will,” Aunt Sadie cried out 
in deepest anguish. 

“Hush, Auntie ! Don't tell the General !” 

General Hamilton, who stood a little behind Aunt Sadie, 
bowed his head with a dry sob. Doctor Fairfield bent over 
, the ’girl, but her eyes remained unwaveringly fixed upon 
Aunt Sadie. 

j “Can nothing be done. Doctor?” whispered Aunt Sadie, 
i imploringly. 

Doctor Fairfield shook his head, 
f “Is the General here. Auntie?” whispered Rosie; “the 
\ good General, I want to see him.” 

I “Dear little Dimples,” said the General, kneeling down 
beside the bed. 

Rosie with the greatest difficulty removed her eyes 
from Aunt Sadie's face and fixed them upon the General. 

“Dear General,” she murmured, lovingly. “So good, 
so kind always !” 

Gazing at him in silence after that, she seemed sinking 
into that dangerous insensibility which Aunt Sadie dreaded. 

“Look at me, Rosie,” said Aunt Sadie, bending low 
over the girl. 

Rosie obeyed the kind voice, and at once brightened 
into consciousness again. There seemed to be some com- 
pelling power in Aunt Sadie's eyes that upheld her spirit. 
Suddenly she became conscious of the raging storm outside. 

“Listen, it's raining,” she whispered, looking eagerly 
into Aunt Sadie's face. “Is that why Elmer doesn't come. 
Auntie ?” 

“Yes, darling.” 

“Ah, I knew it,” said Rosie, radiantly smiling. “He 
will come when the storm is over. But hush, Auntie 1” with 
a look of warning ; “don't tell the General 1” A moment's 


544 


THE WATTERSONS. 


pause. ‘'You saw the letter, Auntie,'’ whispered Rosie, 
making a feeble motion towards her bosom ; “the note which 
he sent me the night he went away?” 

“Yes, Rosie, I saw it,” said Aunt Sadie, miserably. 

“He loves me. Auntie.” 

Aunt Sadie did not reply in words, but she pressed the 
thin little hand against her cheek in an agony of grief. 

“Where is Myrtle?” whispered Rosie. 

“Here I am, Rosie,” cried Myrtle, throwing herself 
down beside the bed in a burst of grief. “Dear, dear Rosie, 
I am here.” 

“Kiss me !” said Rosie, smiling. 

Her eyes remained fixed upon the weeping girl . and 
slowly but surely she was sinking away, when Aunt Sadie 
again bent over her. Once more she rallied. 

“Don’t cry. Auntie,” she said. “Fm not afraid.” A 
pause. “Auntie, do you know whom I think God is like? 
Like Myrtle’s papa ! Yes, I’ve always thought Him like 
Myrtle’s papa ever since I was a wee little girl, because 
one night when I was staying with you I saw Myrtle saying 
her prayers, kneeling at his knee and looking up at him. 
Ever since then, whenever I thought of God, I thought of 
Myrtle’s papa, and whenever I saw Myrtle’s papa I thought 
of God. And so I’m not afraid,” she concluded, smiling 
brightly. 

“Her mind is wonderfully clear. Doctor,” whispered 
Aunt Sadie, hopefully. “Isn’t that a good sign?” 

“She is dying, Sadie,” replied Doctor Fairfield, gravely. 

“Oh, I cannot believe it!” cried Aunt Sadie, with a 
fresh outburst of grief. • “Winfield — General, do, do some-' 
thing !” 

“Dear Sadie !” said Winfield, more moved than words 
can tell by the strange fancy of the dying girl. 

“Auntie.” Aunt Sadie bent down in deep anxiety. The 
end had come. Rosie could scarcely breathe. The girls 
fell on their knees around the bed and sobbed despairingly. 
Mam Sue burst into a wail which echoed through the 
house, and from below was answered by a mournful howl 
from Carlo. The storm raged with unabating fury. 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 


545 

‘^Rosie ! Rosie cried Aunt Sadie, sobbing and trem- 
bling violently. “Rosie ! Rosie 

Rosie’s eyes grew larger and, smiling, she whispered 
one word : “Elmer !” 

Aunt Sadie covered the little hand with kisses and 
called her again in frantic entreaty. Rosie was gasping 
for breath. Her fingers closed convulsively around Aunt 
Sadie’s. Her lips moved and in her wide staring eyes there 
came a look of tenderness beautiful to see. Aunt Sadie bent 
low, still kissing the hand and sobbing. 

“Tell — him — when — he — comes — I — love — him.” 

And with those words upon her lips she died. Aunt 
Sadie threw herself upon the bed in a passion of grief. 

“Oh, my child ! my child ! my pretty little Rosie ! 
Oh, God, how could you, how could you !” 

Winfield, kneeling beside his sister, tried to comfort her, 
but she would not be comforted. 

“Oh ! she was good, Winfield. She did not deserve to 
die,” she cried out in violent grief. “Oh, God, how could 
you ! How could you !” 

“Sadie, dear heart, listen to me,” implored Winfield. 

Tears were running down his cheeks. The General’s 
head was bowed upon the bed beside Aunt Sadie. Mam 
Sue had thrown herself flat upon the floor, where she 
groveled with Benjamin. The girls around her were cry- 
ing bitterly. 

Outside Carlo howled dismally, and the storm abating 
its fury, settled gradually into a lingering, long-drawn, 
steady and refreshing rain. 

Carlo howled through the night and far into the morn- 
ing, which dawned a dark, murky, disagreeable leaden hue, 
enveloping the town like a pall. It rained by fits and starts 
all the morning, sometimes gently, sometimes in heavy 
showers. Grief-stricken, that small group remains around 
the pitiful little corpse, whose wax-like countenance after 
death has taken on a look of smiling tranquility, beautiful to 
see. 

Turn we from this scene of sorrow to a scene more 
bright and gay. 


546 


THE WATTERSONS. 


The fashionable church, whereof the Rev. Mortimer 
Ringrose is the pastor, radiates with festivity. There is 
to be a wedding, a fashionable wedding at which His Rev- 
erence is to officiate in all the glory and sanctity of his 
office. The church is prettily decorated within and without. 
The walls are hung with laurel, the great lobby transformed 
into a bower of roses, whose heavy fragrance filled the air. 
Behold, the throng waiting eagerly, craning to catch the 
first glimpse of the bride. Behold, the Reverend Mortimer 
Ringrose, book in hand, standing in readiness. The great 
doors swing wide, and the bride enters, a radiant vision in 
pure white, leaning on her proud father’s arm, and at- 
tended by her bridesmaids. The groom awaits her at the 
altar. The party proceeds slowly up the aisle, approaching 
the minister, before whom the happy pair meet, to the 
gasping delight of the crowd. A hush succeeds the tumult 
created by the rustling of silks and satins, and trampling 
feet and whispering voices, a solemn hush, and then the 
grand roll of the organ fills the church with melody. Again, 
a hush ! And now the voice of the minister strikes 
unctuously upon the ear. 

‘'There are three epoch-making periods in life — birth, 
marriage, and death. The years following the first are the 
years of childhood, happy, care-free, joyous childhood, 
which is but a prelude to the second period of life, that of 
glorious man and womanhood, which begins with marriage. 
The second period is filled with care and fraught with 
heavy responsibilities, for it is the period of pro-creation, 
and preparation for the final period and the glories of the 
life to come. Happy the man, happy the woman who enters 
upon this period of life with a grave sense of the duties 
devolving upon them in it, who with hearts united in 
mutual love, join hands in holy wedlock and humbly pre- 
pare to share all that life may hold for them in the future. 
The responsibilities will be great, but if lovingly shared, 
they will be easily borne, and that happiness shall be two- 
fold in which two loving hearts participate. A marriage 
is a union of two souls. Whether good shall result from 
such union or ill, dwells wholly with those entering into it. 
With minds pure and hearts mutually trusting, with souls 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 


547 


at peace with God, and a firm resolution to faithfully keep 
the vows made that day, they could boldly face the future 
and with smiling lips begin the new life. 

‘‘Happy, happy couple ! All that beauty, all that virtue, 
all that love can give, is yours. The world lies before you. 
Life, beautiful life is now opening to your eyes. . Surrounded 
by loving and devoted friends, you are this day united in 
holy wedlock. You begin the journey of life under the 
most favorable auspices, with mutual joy, mutual rapture, 
and mutual tenderness in your hearts ; virtue crowned and 
glorious in your innocence and chastity, you now join hands 
and promise to love, to honor, and to abide each unto the 
other until death do you part. Your position in life will 
be very high. Your responsibilities will be very great. The 
world will look to you for precept and example, and with 
that consciousness' in your hearts you will be upheld in 
spirit and made strong and powerful by the God who looks 
down upon you and blesses you this day.'’ 

Thus spake His Reverence, in a touching little dis- 
course delivered to the Hammersmiths, the Rochesters, the 
Markhams, the Thompsons, and people of lesser note or 
less pretensions. 

“Human Nature," as His Reverence said in conclusion, 
“is prone to error, for Human Nature is weak, and the 
errors arising out of this deplorable weakness should be 
forgiven and forgotten by the wife and by the husband. 
There is nothing so sweet in life, nothing so pleasing, noth- 
ing so beautiful, as mutual forbearance. How happy, how 
joyful, how beautiful life would be if instead of blaming 
each other, we would lay the blame where it belongs, upon 
poor Human Nature ! Oh, my friends, be forbearing, be 
considerate, and kind, and forgiving! The dangers and 
temptations, the snares that beset us in this life, are not of 
our own making, not of our own choosing, not of our de- 
signing; and if, in the weakness of erring Human Nature, 
we should slip and fall, be not hard, but forbearing, and life 
will flow smoothly on to the end." 

How beautiful ! How eloquent ! How touching, and 
best of all, how true ! Thus murmured the Hammersmiths, 
the Rochesters, the Markhams, the Thompsons, and the 


548 


THE WATTERSONS. 


people of lesser note or less pretensions. How inconceivably 
handsome and saint-like His Reverence looked as he de- 
livered these touching sentiments ! Such fire ! Such 
ecstasy ! Such grace of gesture ! An angel, saint and 
minister in one. 

But hush ! The solemn ceremony has begun. Breath- 
less interest. Some women begin to cry and a general 
sniveling ensues, as His Reverence in a solemn and im- 
pressive manner pronounces them man and wife. And now, 
with upraised hands and eyes and a faltering voice, he calls 
down the blessing of heaven upon their union. 

Happy, happy pair! Envious eyes follow the newly 
wedded couple as the party slowly passes down the broad 
aisle, and out of the great doors. In a trice the church is 
empty, and the impatient throng hurries through the drip- 
ping streets in the wake of the newly wedded pair, for 
there was to be a grand wedding breakfast at the home of 
the bride, with music and dancing to follow. 

Mr. Marblemore looks supremely happy as he stands 
in the great drawing-room, receiving the congratulations 
of his friends. His hope of many years was realized. He 
had long ago reasoned away all qualms of conscience. He 
deeply regretted the absence of his friends, the Wattersons ; 
however, he could not allow their disapproval to stand in 
the way of his long-cherished hopes. The boy had been a 
villain — yes, but what he had done had been done before 
his reform, and like other offenses of those wild days ought 
to be forgiven. He must go abroad for a year or so, and 
when he returned the thing would be forgotten. As for the 
girl, his victim, she should be well provided for. He would 
fill her lap with gold; she should live like a princess, and, 
living thus in luxury and ease, she would soon forget her 
present misery and be very happy. 

Musing thus inwardly, the banker received the con- 
gratulations of his guests with a smiling countenance. The 
minister's hand he pressed with uncommon warmth. Mr. 
Ringrose arrived inmaculate as usual, and smiling a gentle 
pastoral smile, he went around shaking hands assiduously. 

Many guests were in attendance though fewer far than 
the banker had looked for. Hundreds of invitations had been 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 


549 


sent out and declined. Still, looking around about him, Mr. 
Marblemore saw no reason for complaint. The church that 
morning had been crowded to the doors by the curious, 
and over half a hundred guests had flocked to the mansion 
to partake in company of the bridal feast. The men looked 
sheepish enough in very truth for there were scarce half 
a dozen women in rebellious attendance upon their lords, 
but they shook their smiling host by the hand with every 
outward evidence of cordiality. They valued the mighty 
banker’s goodwill too highly to risk incurring his enmity by 
showing a too fine sense of morality at this crisis. So while 
hundreds had adhered rigidly to the ban pronounced against 
his son, these timid among their brethren had come crawling 
to the banker’s feet. 

Mrs. Marblemore was above stairs with the bride, but 
she came down presently and mingled with her guests. 
She met the minister with cool composure and left him with 
one word of greeting. She caught the fond glance of her 
husband across the room and smiled to see his happiness. 
His eyes constantly sought the door as if he were impati- 
ently awaiting some one. Mary, guessing his thoughts 
hastened away and presently returned with Clara, at sight 
of whom the father came forward with both hands out- 
stretched. 

'‘How proud she is,” murmured Mrs. Thompson, who 
strongly disapproved the bride’s icy demeanor. Never 
through the ordeal had she broken her cold reserve by so 
much as a smile. But now, as her father bent down to kiss 
her, she suddenly melted into tears, and throwing her arms 
around his neck, she cried bitterly with her head resting 
on his shoulder. 

“Dear Clara,” said Mr. Marblemore, tenderly. “What, 
so happy, my love, so happy? Here, Mary, take her up" 
stairs. Come, child, compose yourself and prepare to grace 
the wedding feast like my own strong, brave girl.” 

Mrs. Marblemore lead the weeping girl away and 
Elmer followed them up stairs, having some orders to give 
Jacques, his servant, before sitting down to the festival. 
Mr. Marblemore, turning from the bride to his guests be- 
came suddenly aware of a strange commotion among them. 


550 


THE WATTERSONS. 


The women were standing in a cluster whispering eagerly; 
the men looked oddly ill at ease. The confusion increased. 
One woman, then another took her departure. Others fol- 
lowed and presently men and women were running about in 
a state of disorder bordering upon panic. 

“What’s the matter?” asked the astonished banker. 

For some time no one made answer. The confusion 
had become a rout. The guests were rushing pell mell from 
the room and from the house. 

“What does this mean?” again asked Mr. Marblemore, 
halting Mr. Ringrose who was passing hurriedly, looking 
pale and agitated. The minister paused and in a stammering 
incoherent fashion communicated the sad intelligence of 
Rosie’s death. The banker’s cheeks took on a leaden hue. 
“Why, it’s impossible,” he cried, dismayed beyond all tell- 
ing, “utterly impossible.” 

“It is true. Brother Marblemore. She died last night. 
Aunt Sadie was there and Mr. Watterson. Dr. Fairfield was 
called hurriedly.” 

“My God ! how terrible,” cried the banker, utterly dis- 
traught. “Poor little thing! Dead! How awful!” 

Elmer entering the bride’s chamber above stairs to 
escort her to the festal board found his mother alone with 
Clara, weeping bitter tears of woe. 

“What is the matter?” he asked, looking at Clara, who 
stood dry-eyed and pale behind the mother’s chair. 

“Rosie is dead,” cried Mrs. Marblemore, weeping hys- 
terically. 

He leaned weakly against the wall, meeting her accusing 
eye with a look of horror. 

“She died last night,” continued his mother. “Oh, if 
I had only known in time! Nothing good will come of this 
marriage! Oh, Elmer, my son, why, why, why, didn’t you 
listen to me?” 

“Be quiet. Mama,” cried Elmer, sharply. “She would 
have died if she had never seen me. Come, Clara, let us go 
down.” 

“The guests are all gone,” said Mrs. Marblemore. 

“Then get ready and let us get away from this hole. 
Clara, are you coming? Your father is waiting below.” 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 


551 

'‘Yes — yes/' said Clara, rousing herself. She had stood 
like a statue throughout this scene; but now she hurriedly 
went about her preparations for departure. "Help me, 
Mama, Papa is waiting for us." 

Mr. Marblemore came to meet them at the foot of the 
stairway in the wide hall. 

"Did you hear, Clara," he said huskily. 

"Yes." 

"And — you are going?" 

"Yes." 

She looked cold and little moved standing there waiting 
the announcement of the carriage. Elmer joined them pres- 
ently, and after kissing her father once again, and submitting 
to Mrs. Marblemore’s embrace, she placed her hand upon 
her husband's arm, and together they went out, got into 
the carriage and drove away. 

There was no rice thrown after the departing couple, 
but a shower of bricks and stones greeted the carriage on its 
appearance in the street, and loud shouts of execration sped 
it on its way. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ABDICATES. 

The Chronicle was dead. General Hamilton sat in his 
office holding the last number of the famous old journal in 
his hand, musing sadly on the past. He was ruined. Every 
dollar of the fortune made in the earlier more prosper- 
ous days was gone. Nothing at all remained. The office 
building, his home, everything was heavily mortgaged, and 
the mortgages were in the hands of his most implacable 
enemy. Notice of foreclosure had come the day before and 
two lines in the Chronicle had announced its demise. But 
the General as he sat in the old chair, at the old desk, a sad 
and dejected figure, thought not of his ruin and poverty. 
The death of his much loved journal it was that cut him to 
the heart. He had served the public through a quarter of a 
century, served it nobly, faithfully, and now in his old age 
that public had deserted him. He had fought corruption, 
fraud, rascality, he had given of his best always, but all to no 
avail. Never had he considered personal consequences when 
the weal of the public was in question. His thunders had 
penetrated far beyond his home town, frightening rascals 
and driving them to cover. In the earlier, more turbulent 
days of his career, he had been waylaid, shot at, stabbed in 
the dark, but he had continued in his course with dogged 
resolution. And this was the end ! The General sighed, 
musing thus inwardly and laying aside the dear old paper, 
rose and slowly paced the room. What would his contempo- 
raries say? Nothing to wound him he was sure. They 
loved the old man, though editorially they had waged inces- 
sant warfare through the years. ''The Rebel’’ would be 
missed and mourned. There was balm in that thought. The 
General smiled with a flash of recurring delight as he re- 
called his hard fought battles, in the past ; his victories ; his 
triumphs ; the thundering discussions he had waged with half 
a dozen young rivals at once. Never, he was pleased to think 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ABDICATES. 553 

had he had the worst of it. He had forced the surrender 
of one and all. His theories, his opinions, his rejoinders, 
and witty repartee, had awakened wide-spread interest, and 
never had failed of the attention they merited. But those 
dear old days were gone — the days when an editor wrote 
with a pistol lying within easy reach, when his very life 
often-times depended upon his quickness of hand. Gone to 
return no more. 

The General sighed. Those days were gone by, but he 
survived a relic of the past. What should he do now ? How 
gain a living for himself and those dependent upon him? 
Go out into the world once more a free lance Journalist as 
of old ? Alas ! Who would accept his services now ? He 
was old, his methods antiquated ; he could not bend his proud 
head to the yoke. 

''Nevah while I live will I stoop to the methods now in 
vogue,’’ muttered the old man. 

The sound of hasty footsteps in the outer office roused 
him from his reverie. The next moment Mr. Watterson 
entered, with a copy of the Chronicle in his hand. 

‘'What is this. General?” said the big man. “The 
Chronicle to become extinct? Impossible!” 

“Yes, Majah,” said the General sadly, “the old papah 
is done fo’, suh.” 

“Why, how can that be; are you tired of work, old 
friend?” 

“I am ruined, Majah; I cannot carry on the old jo’nal 
any longah.” 

“Tell me about it. General,” said Mr. Watterson, sitting 
down beside his friend. “Come, General, tell me.” 

“Tha’h is little to tell, suh. The papah has been falling 
behind steadily. It has not paid expenses fo’ years. I 
have kept it up at great cost, and now — in short, I am 
ruined, Majah. The building is mo’gaged, my home also, 
the mo’gages are due in a very few days, and Ma’blemo’ 
holds them.” 

“Why did you allow things to run on in this way. Gen- 
eral?” said Mr. Watterson, reproachfully. “Have you no 
friends ?” 

“Friendship, suh, is sacred. Had I tu’ned to my friends 


554 


THE WATTERSONS. 


in my difficulty, suh, they would no longah be my friends, 
but my credito’s, and I prefu’ them among my enemies, suh.” 

'‘But surely General, you should not have scrupled to 
come to me. However, it is not yet too late. Something 
can be done, no doubt?” 

"Nothing shall be done, Majah,” said the General 
stiffly. "Ma’blemo’ holds the mo’gages, suh,” he added as if 
that were all-sufficient. 

"But Marblemore can be made to surrender them,” said 
the Major, good-humoredly. 

"No, Majah, my work is done.” 

"Then doubtless you mean to return to Virginia ?” 

"Eh !” said the General looking up quickly, "what did 
you say, Majah?” 

"I said that you must return to your estate in Virginia, 
General,” said Mr. Watterson rubbing his hands together 
and laughing in enjoyment of the General’s astonishment. 

"My — estate — in — Vu’ginia — suh?” replied General 
Hamilton, speaking very slowly, "and pray what do you 
know of my estate in Virginia?” 

"I know General that you have an estate there. I 
know that the estate in the very best condition is awaiting 
you now.” 

The General stared at him in a bewildered way. 

"I know that all you have to do is to return and take 
possession of your heritage,” continued Mr. Watterson, 
smiling. "It is a magnificent estate. General. Our boy, who 
has been over every foot of it, is most enthusiastic about it. 
Now listen, old friend, and I’ll tell you the story. I own 
I did not think of the possibility of your having 
possessions in the . South until Sadie gave me an inkling of 
the truth. Our boy long ago informed us of the difficulties 
you were laboring under here, and in talking the matter over 
with Sadie, she spoke of the estate you had left behind in 
Virginia quite as if it were a matter of common knowledge. 
When the thing had once been suggested to me, I thought 
of a thousand things to bear out the possibility that you had 
in very truth left such possessions behind in coming North 
to me. Indeed, in telling of the ruin and havoc wrought in 
the South by the war in the early days, you often alluded to 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ABDICATES. 555 

the wasted condition in which you found your property, 
but I never thought you guilty — pardon me General — of the 
madness of turning your back upon that property, A prac- 
tical man. General,” said Mr. Watterson severely, ‘‘would 
have realized as much as possible on such property, and — ” 

“What, suh? Sell my ancestral estate!” cried the Gen- 
eral hotly. “Majah, you insult me! Ba’ter the lands which 
my ancesto’s held fo’ two hundahd years?” 

“Sentimental nonsense. General, I assure you,” said Mr. 
Watterson. “However, that is neither here nor there. When 
upon Sadie’s suggestion, I had reasoned the thing out to 
my own satisfaction, I determined to investigate, and so I 
wrote to Mr. Curtis, my brother-in-law, who, as you know, 
is a resident of Maryland, who put me in touch with a firm 
of lawyers. They informed me very shortly that the old 
' Hamilton estate was intact, in the hands of a certain 
iMainard — Lawrence H. Mainard.” 

“My cousin, Majah,” said General Hamilton with emo- 
tion. “My cousin on my mothah’s side, who was too young 
to take an active pa’t in the wah. The Maina’ds, suh, are 
'among the oldest families in the South. My mothah was 
descended in a straight line from Majah Maina’d who as a 
gentleman volunteer, assisted General Wolf in the sto’ming 
of Quebec. General Maina’d second in command to Gen- 
eral Jackson at the battle of New Orleans was my matu’nal 
grandfathah, sah.” 

“A noble and warlike ancestry, General,” said Mr. 
Watterson. “But if all the Mainards were as honorable as 
the gentleman now bearing the name, they had more reason 
to pride themselves on their purity of character than on the 
blueness of their blood. I do not value ancestry a jot. Gen- 
eral/’ continued Mr. Watterson throwing himself back in 
jhis chair, and assuming his most arrogant manner, sitting 
with his thumbs in the arm-pits of his waistcoat and his 
fingers gently drumming on his breast — his invariable atti- 
tude when he wished to provoke his choleric old friend. 
“If you will permit me, I will prove to you that a man’s 
ancestry — ” 

“A man’s ancestry, suh,” interrupted the General hotly, 
“is a critu’ion by which — ” 


556 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Is no criterion at all,” said Mr. Watterson in his 
loudest tones. "A man’s ancestors may have been hanged — ” 

"Then you may be shu’ that the man will follow in tha’h 
footsteps, suh,” cried the General. "Do you mean to assu’t, 
suh — assu’t to me, suh, that a man who can trace his name 
back a hundahd — a thousand years — a name suh, made 
honohable and distinguished fo’ worth, suh, and valo’h by 
all who bo’h it — that such a name, suh, is not to be mo’ 
proudly bawn by its possessoh than the insignificant cogno- 
men bestowed upon a clodpated fool, suh, to distinguish 
him from othah fools, who have no grandsiahs, suh, and 
nevah had ! Do you mean to make such an assu’tion to me, 
suh?” 

"Just so. General,” said Mr. Watterson, firmly. "Just 

so.” 

"Majah, you will oblige me by quitting my presence, 
suh,” said the General in disgusted tones. "I’ll cut yo’ 
acquaintance, suh, upon the honoh of a gentleman !” 

"The survival of the fittest. General,” began Mr. Wat- 
terson firmly,” shows that — ” 

"Damn the su’vival of the fittest, suh,” cried the Gen- 
eral now thoroughly exasperated. ''Quit my presence, suh, 
instantly.” 

"Not yet, General. We will if you please, postpone this 
discussion to a more fitting time and place,” said Mr. Wat- 
terson majestically. "I have not yet finished my story.” 

The General turned to him again, smoothing his rugged 
brow. 

"Go on, Majah,” he said. 

"This Mr. Mainard who believed you dead, no sooner 
heard the contrary than he offered instantly to place the 
estate in your hands. My lawyers were surprised, and I must 
confess that I too was surprised, for I had not expected 
to regain possession of a property so vast which had been 
in the gentleman’s hands so long, without a struggle.” 

"A Maina’d, suh,” said the General stiffly, "would 
sco’n to do anything which would reflect upon his honoh, 
suh.” 

"So it seems; but if you will pardon me General, that 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ABDICATES. 557 

is rather owing to the gentleman’s personal integrity than to 
the name he bears, or to his ancestors.” 

‘'I deny it, suh,” said the General stoutly. ''I uttahly 
deny it, Majah!” 

''Well, be that as it may, the estate is now at your 
service or disposal. Not only is the property preserved in 
its entirety, but it is restored to its original prosperous state. 
Mr. Mainard has, on the chance of your return, kept an 
accurate account of the income of the estate through all 
these years, and of the cost in restoring and maintaining it.” 

"That, suh, I do not believe,” said the General with 
dignity. "No Maina’d would think of rendo’ing an account 
of anything to a Hamilton suh, and no Hamilton would think 
of demanding such an accounting of a Maina’d, suh.” 

"Well, as a matter of fact, this was rather an infer- 
ence drawn by my lawyers, than an absolute statement by 
Mr. Mainard.” 

"I can well believe that, suh,” said the General 
haughtily. 

"Sherman, General, was entertained in the most hos- 
pitable manner by the Mainards.” 

"The hospitality of a Southern gentleman, suh,” de- 
clared the General arrogantly, "is provu’bial.” 

"You are incorrigible. General,” said Mr. Watterson, 
smiling broadly. "That is all.” 

"All,” said the General, pressing his friend’s hand with 
deep emotion. "All ! Majah you have given me new life ! 
I have those depending upon me, suh, faithful friends in 
exile, who with me will weep tears of joy when they heah 
of this. I own to you, Majah, that I have mo’ than once 
thought of retu’ning to my beloved Vu’ginia, but I was with- 
held by feelings which I cannot put into words. 

"But you will return now. General?” 

"Yes, suh; not as a claimant, however. The property 
shall remain in Cousin Maina’d’s hands. I will but ask 
enough to maintain myself and su’vants fo’ the brief space 
of life yet allotted me. Mr. Maina’d has a family, suh?” 

"Yes, General.” 

"Has he a son, suh?” 

"Four of them General, and three girls; all very young 


558 THE WATTERSONS. 

as yet. The eldest boy is named Hamilton Mainard.’’ 

“Thank God ! And with what family did Cousin 
Maina’d ally himself? I presume, Majah, that the boy paid 
no heed to this impo’tant question.'’ 

“No, Sherman is too sensible a young fellow to bother 
with such nonsense. However, I learned from my lawyers 
that his wife was the only daughter of Colonel George 
Strathmore, an officer who served with great distinction dur- 
ing the Mexican War." 

“Strathmo' — Strathmo’ !" mused the General with a pro- 
foundly abstracted air. “Tha’h are the Gawgia Strathmo’s 
and the Mississippi branch both descended in a straight line 
from Randolph Strathmo' who emigrated in sixteen ninety- 
fo' from Yo'kshiah. Good old English stock, Majah — the 
ve'y best blood in England ! Cha’les Strathmo’ fo'th of the 
line took pa't in that disastrous expedition against Quebec 
undertaken by A’nold the traitor, suh, and tha'by brought 
down upon his head the wrath of his venerable fathah, suh, 
old Dominick Strathmo’ who throughout the wah of the 
Revolution remained faithful to Britain rendering her every 
aid in his powah. At the close of the wah, he sailed fo’ Eng- 
land wha’h he p’oposed tha’haftah to reside, and nevah was 
hu’d of again. His brig went down, suh, with all on bo’d, 
it was gen’ally believed. Cha’les had two sons and one 
daughtah — Vu’ginia. How well I remembah that glodous 
beauty, suh ! She married young Carroll of Maryland — one 
of the Carrolls of Carrollton, grandson of the signah of the 
Declaration of Independence. Cha’les’s second son, Wash- 
ington, married a Lee — a Vu’ginia Lee, Majah, and with her 
emigrated to the State of Mississippi in twenty-fo’. Gawge, 
the eldah, entered into an alliance with the daughtah of old 
Gena’l Hammond of Birmingham, State of Alabama. She 
married him, Majah, when he was lying at the point of 
death, from a wound which he received at a meeting with 
young Mo'timo’ Duncan, suh, of Richmond, his bittah rival 
in the affections of the young lady. She married Strathmo’ 
and missed him back to health once mo’ — a noble, generous 
true-ha’hted Dixie lass, suh ! Now, with which branch, 
Majah, did Cousin Maina’d ally himself?’’ 

“With the Georgia branch. General.’’ 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ABDICATES. 559 

''Ah the General smiled and tugged delightedly at his 
imperial. "A noble alliance truly, Majah!’' 

"True, but if you will pardon me. General,’’ replied Mr. 
Watterson with the most elaborate politeness ; "I will demon- 
strate beyond the peradventure of a doubt that a name is in 
itself of little worth or importance — ” 

"Not a wo’d, suh,” cried the General wringing his 
friend’s hand. "I cannot quaw’el with you now, and I know 
that you are trying to involve me in a quaw’el, in odah to 
conceal yo’ noble work, Majah. Suh, I thank you. I would 
not have believed this mo’ning, suh, that life held so much 
joy in sto’ fo’ me. To die in my deah Vu’ginia has been 
my earnest wish throughout my exile. That wish, pray 
God, will now be realized.” 

"But not for a good many years yet. General,” said Mr. 
Watterson heartily. "We’ll spend many a day together yet, 
old friend, and I am very sure before the end, to convert you 
to my way of thinking on this all-important question of the 
'‘Survival of the fittest.” Mr. Mainard was with difficulty 
restrained from coming here when he learned of your pres- 
ence, but when I represented to him your stubbornness — yes, 
your stubbornness of spirit which would not allow you to 
give up the paper as long as you had a dollar in the world, 
and told him Jiow near the end of your resources you were, 
he agreed with me that it would be best to keep you in 
ignorance until the Chronicle was utterly dead and done 
for.” 

"Majah, I thank you.” 

"Now let us go home General, to Sadie, who is anx- 
iously awaiting your decision. She hopes ardently that you 
will remain with us as our guest General, always. She does 
not think it possible that you can find it in your heart to 
leave us after all these years. I would add my word to 
hers, old friend, but I know how useless it would be.” 

The General did not reply, but placing his arm in that 
of his friend, they went out into the street together and 
walking slowly and in complete silence, made their way 
homeward. The General’s head was bowed in thought. He 
did not mark the curious glances cast at him by the people 
whom they met. The news of the Chronicle’s extinction had 


560 


THE WATTERSONS. 


already gone forth, and in the glances cast at him compas- 
sion blended with admiration. Aunt Sadie was waiting for 
them in the parlor. She came forward eagerly to meet her 
friend. 

''Winfield has told me all, General,’’ she said in that 
liquid voice whose tones melted so sweetly on the ear, "but 
I cannot congratulate you, for I know we shall lose you 
now ; and we have been such friends. General ; have we not 
Winfield?” 

"Dear Mistress Sadie,” said the General, bending rever- 
ently over her hand. 

"Will you not stay with us. General?” said Aunt Sadie 
eagerly. "We are your real friends. General. We love you 
dearly. Your relatives in the South, however good and 
kind, are almost unknown to you. They will not love you — 
they cannot cherish you as we would do, Winfield and 1.” 

"It is not my relatives, dear Madam,” said the Gen- 
eral gently. "It is the land that draws me — my native South- 
land.” 

"And we must lose you?” said Aunt Sadie. "Winfield, 
can you say nothing to keep him with us?” 

"He will come to us often, Sadie,” said Winfield. "And 
it may be that we shall be nearer to him in the future. His 
estate lies very near to Washington.” 

"Mistress Sadie,” said the General gravely, "many 
years ago when I came to you ruined, friendless and almost 
broken-ha’hted you gave to me the priceless boon of yo’ 
friendship; and through all these years you have remained 
my constant friend.” 

"Who would not. General ?” said Aunt Sadie weeping. 
"Who would not love him, Winfield?” 

"Once I cherished a hope that that friendship would 
ripen into a deepah feeling fo’ me. You nevah pu’mitted me 
to express that hope in words. When I sought to speak you 
told me the story of Mary’s love fo’ Doctah Maxwell, and 
thus, with the utmost sweetness and delicacy you made plain 
to me the futility of hope on my paht ; and so I have nevah 
spoken what has been in my ha’ht; but now and here in the 
presence of yo’ brothah, I shall speak. I am old now, old 
and wo’n, a battahed wreck, but I have fo’ many years en- 


IN WHICH THE GENERAL ABDICATES. 561 

tertained a deep regard fo’ you. You have asked me to re- 
main with you, to spend my declining years beneath yo' roof. 
I will do so on one condition, Madam — that you give yo’ 
hand to me in marriage. On this condition will I stay and 
not otha’wise. Only the pride and happiness of calling you 
wife even in the winter of my life, will compensate me fo’ 
the loss of my native Southland.” 

Aunt Sadie sat pale and breathless, looking up at him as 
he stood a gallant old man before her, with his eyes very 
tender now and moist with emotion looking into hers. 
Slowly the tears welled up into her eyes and rolled down her 
cheeks. She opened her lips to speak, but only an indistinct 
murmur of ‘"General” came from them; and covering her 
face with her hands, she fell to crying silently. 

“I have my answer. Madam,” said the General, gently. 
“Mary will continue faithful to the good Doctah.” 

“It — it cannot be otherwise. General,” replied Aunt 
Sadie, beseechingly. 

“It is what I expected,” said the gallant old man, kiss- 
ing her hand. 

“Dear General,” cried Aunt Sadie, rising eagerly, 
“must you indeed go?” 

“Yes.” 

For one moment Aunt Sadie stood silently regarding 
him, with one hand pressing his arm. 

“General,” she then said softly. “If — if I could recall 
that time, knowing what I know now, my answer would be 
different.” 

“Oh, Madam! You heah her, Majah!” 

“Do not misunderstand me. General,” said Aunt Sadie, 
coloring faintly. “Whatever might have been, it is too late 
now. Only I could not let you go from me without confess- 
ing this. My memory is as vivid now as ever, but side by 
side with the image of my girlhood lover, you. General, have 
always stood — shall always §tand. I know now that I 
might still have cherished this memory and in all things have 
proved a true wife to you, but at that time I thought — 
I thought differently.” 

Her voice faltered and she ceased speaking, and clasp- 
ing his hands, she gazed at him in silence through swimming 


562 


THE WATTERSONS. 


tears. The General tried to speak but his emotion was too 
great for words. Once more he bowed over her hand and 
hastily went away. Aunt Sadie buried her face on her 
brother’s breast and gave way to tears. 

''Don’t cry, Sadie,” said Winfield, deeply moved. "It 
is all for the best. No doubt it is all for the best; but I am 
glad, my gentle sister, that you told him that — very glad.” 

General Hamilton, placing his afifairs into Mr. Watter- 
son’s hands, remained only long enough to exchange letters 
with his cousin, then went away, taking with him his faith- 
ful servants and Carlo. The extinction of the old paper 
created quite a stir in newspaper circles, but the criticisms 
awakened by its career were for the most part friendly. The 
Chronicle and its editor were forgotten after a while, and 
things went on just the same. Mr. Watterson looking into 
his old friend’s afifairs, found that he had indeed wasted all 
his substance on the paper. Going to Marblemore in the 
hope of reaching a settlement favorable to his friend, the 
banker expressed his purpose in few words. 

"I shall destroy the presses,” he said, "and raze the 
buildings to the ground.” 

And the haughty banker kept his word. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 

For full two years the Reverend Mortimer Ringrose had 
reigned supreme in the gentle bosom of the female half of his 
congregation; in a single month he fell from his high estate, 
became a mere man, where before he had been a saint, an 
angel and a martyr. The movement started slowly enough. 
Coming from the Marblemore wedding, Mrs. Hammersmith, 
shocked by the news of little Rosie’s death, and seeking a 
vent for her indignation, spoke wrathfully of His Reverence, 
declaring that if he had not sanctioned the marriage, she 
would never have lent the light of her countenance to what 
was nothing more or less than a crime. Mrs. Thompson, 
equally chagrined and remorseful, answered in kind, and out 
of this little seed grew the popular sentiment against him. 

For, eager to clear themselves in the eyes of their 
neighbors, these amiable ladies spoke everywhere in terms 
of the severest censure of Mr. Ringrose. They declared that 
in marrying Elmer, whose treachery had killed little Rosie, 
he was guilty of a flagrant outrage against society and the 
church. Other ladies who had been present on that occa- 
sion followed Mrs. Hammersmith’s lead, and His Rever- 
ence was made their scapegoat. His action was discussed 
with eagerness at the club, and when once his name had 
come to be bandied about in unhallowed gossip, there was no 
length to which his detractors would not go. 

The good sisters had long before this marked the Wat- 
terson pew destitute of worshippers ; they had observed that 
Mrs. Marblemore seldom attended divine service now, com- 
ing only on those rare Sundays which her husband spent at 
home. Not these alone. Many others had left. Quite a 
number attended divine worship under Mr. Traviston, a 
stern, cold, severe preacher and strict moralist. Not a few 
remained at home on Sundays. These matters coming by 
slow degrees home to the minds of the good sisters, had 


564 


THE WATTERSONS. 


already begun to cause some wonder, some doubt, a vague 
feeling of uneasiness, when Mrs. Hammersmith’s deter- 
mined attack crystallized the wavering sentiment into a firm 
conviction that His Reverence was but mortal, and no bet- 
ter than he should be. 

“Why,” said Sister Thompson addressing Sister Wat- 
terson, “why do you no longer come to our church, Sadie?” 

“Because,” replied that stately lady, “because I no 
longer find there what I go to church in search of.” 

“And what is that my sweet Sadie?” 

“That I must leave you to discover Mrs. Thompson.” 

But others were more outspoken. Mr. Ringrose’s ser- 
mons were a mere series of inane rhapsodies, they declared, 
a beautiful flow of rhetoric without thought or depth or 
feeling. There was no originality of ideas, no religious 
enthusiasm, nothing but words nicely arranged and prettily 
delivered. The discussions raged fiercely for a time, for 
there were many who in blissful self-complacency warmly 
defended their minister from these attacks, and indignantly 
refuted the charges made against His Reverence, of a lack 
of zeal, and fire, and force. It was a shame they said that 
a man so pure and good and holy should be used so; but 
the malcontents prevailed in the end, as they always do, 
and the good sisters sorrowfully owned that His Reverence 
was not what they had thought him. He was a good man 
no doubt. A man so handsome could not but be good, but 
he was only a man. The glamour was gone. Their idol’s 
feet were feet of clay, and though his head was as the head 
of an angel, its beauty was forever marred in their eyes. 

Things would not have been so bad for His Reverence 
even at this pass if the good sisters had been content to let 
matters rest there, for he might have continued in possession 
of his lucrative pastorate for years, or at least until a con- 
stantly dwindling congregation made a change imperative, 
but the gossip-loving sisters were by no means disposed to 
rest upon their laurels. Having weighed and judged the 
minister, they now sought to measure the man. He became 
the main topic of conversation at social gatherings, at the 
club or wherever two or more sisters happened to meet. His 
actions from the day of his arrival among them were re- 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


565 


called and adjudged, from the standpoint from which they 
now saw him. His name came to be mentioned in tones of 
disparagement. Mrs. Delaware had never thought much of 
him. Mrs. Bennett had absolutely declared him inferior to 
good Brother Winslow. Mrs. Miller thought him rather 
handsome, but Mrs. Greenwood considered it wrong for a 
minister to pride himself on his looks. Mrs. Hammersmith 
hinted drolly that there was more behind that scandalous 
episode in his early life than was generally known, and Mrs. 
Brownlow thanked Heaven that she had had little to do 
with him. 

Viewed in this new light, the ladies began to see much 
more than had been apparent before. They began to 
watch his movements afid speculate upon them. It was Mrs. 
Hammersmith who made the astounding discovery of his 
daily visits to Mrs. Rosewood. The widow lived alone now 
with only a vagrant boy as servant, shunned and abhorred 
by her neighbors as an unnatural mother, and an intemper- 
ate, vicious woman. That His Reverence should be seen 
going in and out of the little cottage at all hours, was not 
only an ofifense to the good sisters, but a suspicious circum- 
stance in itself. So at least these ladies concluded, having 
arrived at a pass where the man’s every action was colored 
by prejudice. Mrs. Hammersmith once timed his stay, 
which endured upon that occasion for three long hours, to 
that lady’s great triumph and horror. Mrs. Delaware pass- 
ing when His Reverence was known to be with the widow 
had heard Mrs. Rosewood’s voice raised to quite an un- 
called for pitch. 

“She seemed to be very angry,” said Mrs. Delaware, in 
recounting the incident to the horrified Mrs. Hammersmith. 
“She was scolding I know. She quite shrieked,” added Mrs. 
Delaware, triumphantly. 

All this, as you may imagine, created great excitement 
and scandal. Never had the meetings of the Clarenceburg 
Woman’s League been so lively or so interesting. Mrs. Mil- 
ler it was said, had s,een His Reverence going into the little 
cottage late at night. Various ladies had encountered Mrs. 
Rosewood at various times and places, who in angry tones 
had demanded Mr. Ringrose’s whereabouts. 


566 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Quite as if she owned him/’ said Mrs. Lawler, with a 
look of delighted dismay. 

In a word, things went from bad to worse. A great 
storm was gathering about His Reverence’s ears. 

Naturally a man so watchful and observant as Mr. 
Ringrose noted the general disturbance around him, the 
dark glances, the constrained bearing and cold demeanor 
of all whom he approached. 

He followed step by step the deterioration of his 
cherished popularity. He was worried by the general cold- 
ness, but when to that coldness was added persecution, he 
put on the air of the martyr that had always stood him in 
such good stead. He said nothing, however, to defend himself 
until his name came to be linked with that of the boycotted 
widow, then he raised his voice in protestation. He ex- 
pressed great horror ; he wept with grief ; he called upon 
high Heaven to witness his innocence. He felt sorry for the 
poor woman in her loneliness and despair. She was alone, 
friendless, deserted by all, and if her pastor deserted her 
likewise, where would she turn for consolation? 

It was in this way that he met the reproaches of the 
good sisters, his friends, and supporters, a meager dozen or 
so among two score of bitter enemies, but however loud his 
protestations, however pious his glance and fervid his voice, 
he could not silence the babbling tongues around him. 

It was somewhat past noon on that momentous day 
when Mr. Ringrose, walking slowly with drooping head and 
dejected countenance turned in toward the little white house 
in which Mrs. Rosewood dwelt. He quickened his steps as 
he turned off the street, and cast a furtive glance behind 
him. Across the street he saw Mrs. Hammersmith and 
Mrs. Thompson going towards the club. They were look- 
ing straight at him. His Reverence shuddered for well he 
knew the poisonous tinge of Mrs. Hammersmith’s tongue, 
and from Mrs. Rosewood, he had learned of that half hour 
preceding the meeting, devoted by the members of the 
League to the flaying of their neighbors. But he went on 
nevertheless; for he was in truth utterly helpless in the 
widow’s power. 

Mrs. Rosewood once his dupe, had now become his 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


567 


Nemesis. She demanded his presence every day at such 
and such an hour, and if he failed to appear, she was out 
looking for him in the street, at the church, at the parsonage, 
at the very doors of her neighbors, asking for him and de- 
manding to see His Reverence at once. She was utterly 
shameless. She was^the terror of his life. The scenes that 
were of almost daily occurrence between them beggar de- 
scription. He wept tears of rage and shame at the thought 
of his impending downfall. Was it for this that he had 
striven might and main? For this that he had fawned and 
flattered, and cringed and wheedled and played the hypo- 
crite? That the very tool which he had first made use of 
should be thei means of ruining him, filled him with a terri- 
ble rage. He tried to reason with the woman, but all in 
vain. In vain he pleaded, in vain he stormed and threatened. 
She laughed and defied him. He was growing desperate 
by this continued persecution. 

He met the little woman now with a scowl of rage and 
hatred. 

''This thing has got to stop,’' he said, confronting her 
with a pale, set face. "I will not endure this persecution 
any longer.” 

"You have said that before,” she sneered. 

He stood before her, immaculate in irreproachable at- 
tire, a well preserved man of forty. She a woman of scarce 
that age, was horrible in her ugliness. She was fat and 
blowsy, and no longer clean. Her face was red, coarse and 
repelling, and stamped with every evil passion of her nature 
— a very virago in aspect, without a single redeeming 
feature. Within a comparatively short period of eighteen 
months, she had been plump and pretty, an attractive 
woman, taking a fine pride in the appearance she pre- 
sented to the world, clean, neat and tidy, and not unhappy. 
The alteration wrought by all-consuming unchastity and 
raging jealousy was amazing. 

"You have said that before. Your Reverence,” she 
repeated, as he stood looking down at her in a kind of 
horror. She wagged her head from side to side, leering at 
him out of her little black eyes. She had taken to drink of 
late, to drown out her misery, and she had been drinking 


568 


THE WATTERSONS. 


that day. ''You will come whenever I say so, and as often 
as I please,’’ she said. 

"Why do you use me so. Rose?” 

"Ask your dear Sister Marblemore,” she replied, sul- 
lenly. 

"How often shall I tell you that there is nothing be- 
tween us?” 

"And how often shall I tell you that I wouldn’t believe 
you on oath ? Didn’t I often see you looking at each other ? 
You go to see her.” 

"I go to see many people,” he said, stroking his silky 
black mustache, with fingers that trembled. "It’s a shame 
for you to use me so. What have I done to you?” 

"What have you done?” she screamed. "You have 
made me what I am. Before you came I was innocent. I 
was ! I was ! I was not unhappy. I had friends. I was 
not despised, shunned, pointed out by everyone. Look at me 
now,” she continued, becoming more violent still. "Who 
knows me ? Who will speak to me ? Why, even Aunt Sadie 
shuns me. Aunt Sadie whom I have known to visit women 
as low — as low — as low as I am now. I have seen her 
from my window walking past out there, crying and look- 
ing in, but she could not bring herself to come in to me. 
Oh, my God! My God!” she sank back into the chair and 
burst into a passion of tears and sobbed with a shuddering, 
awful intensity that shook her like a jelly. "Even she will 
not come near me ! And she does not know half ! Not half ! 
If she knew what I am !” 

She rose unsteadily and staggered into an adjoining 
room, from whence came the sound of clinking glasses. 

"And what I am you made me,” she said, returning to 
the parlor with a countenance newly inflamed. 

"You owe it to your own passion and intemperance,” 
he replied. "How can you blame me for your lack of 
friends, when you know you brought it on yourself by your 
cruel and unnatural treatment of your daughter. You 
drove her out in her utmost need. And,” he added, bitterly, 
"she was no worse than you.” 

"You remind me of that! YouT she shrieked out, 
mad with fury. "You — you brute! You coward! You 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 


569 


wretch ! Ah, but I’ll fix you ! I’ll go into the street and 
tell your dear sisters what kind of a man you are. I’ll cry 
it out so that all may hear. I’ll show you up, my fine 
preacher. You’d better pack your traps and make ready to 
leave this town for I’ll make it too hot to hold you. Go 
on, get out. I’m done with you.” 

Without a word in reply, he took up his hat and went 

out. 

She looked after him in astonishment, not dreaming 
that he would dare to take her at her word ; but after a 
moment she followed, and going to the foot of the lawn, 
stood watching him as he walked away, utterly regardless 
of her dishevelled appearance and the glances of passing 
people. The minister walked with quick strides, going town- 
ward like one with a definite purpose in view. The woman 
watching him closely saw him turn in toward the Marble- 
more mansion. She uttered a half inarticulate cry of rage, 
and hastening back into the house she called upon the 
vagrant boy, her servant, to follow. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


IN WHICH THE GREAT MARBLEMORE GLORIES IN HIS 
GREATNESS. 

'Tt’s as true as Pm sitting here/’ cried Mrs. Hammer- 
smith, rocking violently to and fro, the center of an eager 
group of women, her friends and fellow members of the 
League. '‘We came right up behind him, and I says to Mrs. 
Thompson, says I, Til bet he’s going in to see Mrs. Rose- 
wood,’ and sure enough, he’d no sooner reached the house 

when he turned in, looking around first like this ” and 

Mrs. Hammersmith cast an eager, fearful glance over her 
shoulder, by way of illustration, "to make sure he wasn’t 
seen, but me and Mrs. Thompson saw him from across the 
street.” 

Lady members aghast! 

"How very terrible !” cried Mrs. Bull, shuddering vir- 
tuously. 

"And him a minister, too!” cried Mrs. Miller, indig- 
nantly. 

"I never would have thought it in the world. Never!” 
said Mrs. Traviston, in a tone of resignation. 

"Ladies, ladies,” cried Mrs. Templeton, coming in hur- 
riedly at this moment, accompanied by Mrs. Parmalee. 
"What do you think we saw coming down, Gertie and I?” 

"What? What?” cried the ladies, eagerly. 

"We saw him coming out,” interrupted Mrs. Parmalee, 
excitedly. 

"Who? Who?” 

"Mr. Ringrose,” cried Mrs. Templeton. 

"Coming out of Mrs. Rosewood’s,” shrieked Mrs. Par- 
malee. 

"And she was following him — ” screamed Mrs. Tem- 
pleton. 

"He looked as pale as a ghost,” shrieked Mrs. Parmalee. 

"And she was that angry !” 


GLORIES IN HIS GREATNESS. 57I 

'^She stood away out on the sidewalk looking after 
him.’^ 

''And you ought to have seen her dress !’' 

"She'd been drinking, too !" 

"She quite staggered !" 

Thus alternately shrieking, the joyous pair poured 
forth their little budget to the intense excitement of their 
eager listeners. The news was eagerly debated, and the 
minister denounced by the indignant dames in unmeasured 
terms, and but for another item of news brought by the 
fortunate Mrs. Templeton, it might have resulted in some 
definite action on the part of the League, for already Mrs. 
Delaware had drawn around her several of the more sedate 
and heads were coming together in deep confabulation, 
when Mrs. Templeton launched a bomb, which all suddenly 
turned the gossip into another channel. 

"What do you think, ladies," she cried, "the Marble- 
mores are going away for good! Yes! Next Tuesday 
night after election. Going to New York to live. I had 
it from Mrs. Marblemore's own lips." 

Mrs. Hammersmith wouldn’t believe it. Mrs. Delaware 
thought it too good to be true. Mrs. Sawyer lamented 
loudly, and the others joined in the discussion with consid- 
erable heat and ardor. They still were battling eagerly when 
Aunt Sadie arrived, who forthwith was drawn into this 
interesting disquisition on Mary’s merits and defects. Aunt 
Sadie, of course, defended her friend ; but only half- 
heartedly. The news was crushing to a woman of her 
tender disposition. This sudden loss of friends so near and 
dear to her overwhelmed her with sorrow. Only the other 
day the good General had gone away, and now Mary and 
Andrew would quickly follow. It was with a heavy heart 
, that she went through her duties as chairman of that 
august body, and, as early as possible she adjourned the 
meeting, whose dull routine, always distasteful to her, was 
doubly so beneath this burden of doubt and uncertainty 
' as to how much was true of the report. She went direct 
1 from the clubroom to the Marblemore bank and was 
^ promptly ushered into the banker’s private office by the 
smiling Johnson. The ordinary rules of exclusion did not 


572 


THE WATTERSONS. 


apply to her; and so, though Mr. Marblemore was not 
alone, the deferential secretary bowed the good lady into the 
great man’s presence with all the assurance in the world. 
The banker, looking unusually glossy in a suit of black 
broadcloth, a snowy shirtfront, high collar, and broad 
black tie, sat leaning far back in his chair, with one well 
shod foot thrown across his leg and his thumbs thrust in 
the armpits of his vest, his great red face beamed 
with good humor. Opposite him sat Farraday, 
journalist and correspondent, negligently nursing his knee, 
smiling slightly, with his flashing glasses turned in full upon 
the banker, whom he was interviewing for his paper. 

Both men sprang to their feet at Aunt Sadie’s entrance, 
both placed their chairs at her service, the journalist bowing 
with the ease and grace of one accustomed by long usage 
to the ways of polite society. The banker held out both 
hands to the flurried lady, who inclined her head in gentle 
greeting to Farraday, whom she knew but slightly, as a very 
persistent visitor of her brother. 

'Ts it true, Andrew ?” she said, sitting down on a third 
chair, which Johnson had brought in. 'Ts it true, as the 
ladies were saying at the club this evening, that you are 
going to New York to stay?” 

'‘Yes, Sadie,” replied Mr. Marblemore, smiling. "It 
is true.” 

"Going for good, Andrew? Oh, it is impossible!” 

"Such is my purpose, Sadie.” 

"Dear, dear, how terrible. First the dear General leaves 
us, and now you and Mary ! Oh, Andrew, how can you 
have the heart to leave us?” said Aunt Sadie, who loved 
her friends dearly one and all, and felt towards Mary as 
a sister. 

"It can’t be helped, my dear Sadie. I am absolutely 
required there.” 

"I am so sorry. But when do you go?” 

"Early next week.” 

"And isn’t Mary terribly distressed? Dear, dear, I 
must call in and see her.” 

"Do, Sadie. She is considerably wrought up, but not 
distressed, I fancy. Rather the reverse, indeed. But go 


GLORIES IN HIS GREATNESS. 


573 


and see her by all means, and stay until I come. I won^t 
be long now, and then wedl send for Winfield and Myrtle 
and we’ll all dine together.” 

''So we will, Andrew,” said Aunt Sadie, rising. "I 
have a call or two to make and then I’ll come.” 

She bowed once more to Farraday, and went out, the 
banker accompanying her to the outer door. 

"Yes, sir,” said Mr. Marblemore, resuming his former 
position of negligent ease. "This city has become too small 
for me. Entirely too small.” 

"So I should have thought,” remarked Farraday, "go- 
ing to New York, eh? Quite a village, they tell me. Intend 
to make it your permanent headquarters?” 

"Yes, I am required there. I should be there now.” 

"Not afraid of going to the other extreme, eh?” queried 
Farraday, lightly. "Clarenceburg too small; New York 
too — eh ?” 

"No, sir, no,” said the banker pompously important. 
"No danger of that at all.” 

"Ah ! You see I was thinking of how the frog from the 
puddle felt when he emigrated to the pond.” 

"I should have gone long ago, but I could not bear to 
leave this dear old town. I have spent all my life here ; here 
I got my start. In this little office I thought out my cam- 
paigns. Some of the most far-reaching schemes were ma- 
tured here; and all were directed from this place. But I can 
stay no longer without seriously injuring my various en- 
terprises. Sentiment has no place in business. Modern 
business demands concentration, and untiring, unceasing 
devotion. That is what I gave to it through thirty years.” 

"Just so,” murmured Farraday, with difficulty sup- 
pressing a yawn. He was down for election which was but 
two or three days distant, and had dropped in on the banker 
on the chance of picking up an interesting item or two, 
rather than with any definite intention of publishing his 
views. He hated platitudes, however, and moral maxims, 
and the above sounded to the experienced reporter like a 
prelude to the usual harangue on honesty, industry, perse- 
verance, and the rest of it, which the modern business man 
preaches so glibly, but rarely practises. "Supposing we be- 


574 


THE WATTERSONS. 


gin at the beginning, Mr. Marblemore. Tell us about your 
start.’’ 

''My start,” replied the banker, with a laugh. "Well, 
thirty years ago, more or less, I came to town, a raw country 
youth, with nothing but an enormous pair of boots and the 
clothes I stood up in. I remember I had twenty cents in 
money in my pocket, that was all. I had worked on the 
surrounding farms all my life and knew nothing but farm 
work. And there I was with twenty cents in my pocket 
and my two hands to work with. And in the country my 
sweetheart was waiting patiently for me. I was ambitious, 
however, and determined to succeed. It was a struggle, 
however, a hard struggle.” 

Farraday grunted. Might polish the thing up for the 
Sunday magazine, but for plain, every day reading it was 
really too prosaic. 

"I went to Mr. Watterson — ” Farraday suddenly sat 
up with an air of interest — "who just then had assumed 
control of the broom works, bearing his name. I asked for 
employment and I obtained it. I remained with Mr. Watter- 
son five years, at the end of which time, I had become sup- 
erintendent of the concern under my employer. How? By 
hard work and strict attention to business. My employer 
saw that I devoted all my energies to furthering his in- 
terests, that I made his business mine, and he 
rewarded me by giving me one place of trust 
after another, as I proved myself capable of filling 
them. I worked days and studied nights, and in 
odd hours dabbled in mechanical experiments. I 
have always been of a mechanical turn of mind. I early saw 
much room for improvement in the machinery then used 
in broom making. I invented several little things, small 
in themselves, but great enough in the aggregate to revo- 
lutionize the methods of broom manufacture then in vogue. 
My appreciative employer adopted them. More ! He 
helped me to push them in the market and I soon derived 
a snug income from my inventions, and, as I was very 
saving, I had at the end of five years a sum of money that 
was large for those times. With this money and again with 
Mr. Watterson’s assistance, I established this bank.” 


GLORIES IN HIS GREATNESS. 


575 


He paused for a moment as if in excess of emotion. 
Even in the midst of his self-complacency the mention of 
his benefactor’s name moved him deeply. 

'‘With Mr. Watterson’s assistance, eh?” queried Far- 
raday, ruminatively. 

"Yes. Without Winfield’s help, I would have had to 
wait three, perhaps five years longer, and time was then 
as now my most valuable asset. I established this bank — ” 

"Still of an inventive bent of mind, sir?” asked Far- 
raday. In his mind’s eye he saw the double-page story he 
would make of these meagre details, and the illustrations 
to accompany and elaborate it. There was Marblemore 
the raw-boned farm boy in huge boots and rough working 
clothes, appealing to Watterson, the young business man, 
for work to keep himself from starving. Watterson benevo- 
lently extending aid ; farm boy toiling, bent double over in- 
tricate machinery; Watterson benevolent and kindly always, 
assisting ambitious boy; farm boy’s rise; Watterson’s en- 
trance into politics; farm boy opens bank; Watterson mag- 
nificently assisting with sundry bags of gold; farm boy’s 
gradual rise to business eminence; Watterson’s growth and 
greatness in politics. Culminating glory : Watterson United 
States Senator from Illinois; farm boy multi-millionaire, 
and foremost financier of the age. Pictures of factory, 
work-shop, bank, mansion, Watterson’s homestead, U. S. 
Senate chamber, N-ew York offices to accompany the whole. 
Farraday’s eyes sparkled. Great! 

"Oh, yes. I’m still of an inventive turn of mind,” re- 
plied the banker, smiling. 

"And your secret of success?” asked Farraday, absently. 

"The secret of success in the business I have chosen, 
I figured was not to rely upon my own resources only, but 
to interest moneyed men in my schemes, and, by acquiring 
their confidence, gain control of large sums of money to 
carry them on. If I had relied solely upon the few paltry 
thousands that I possessed, I would have advanced but little 
beyond my starting point. I saw around me men who were 
deemed wealthy — this one with ten thousand dollars — that 
one with twenty — ^another with fifty — and so on. It was my 
business to obtain their confidence, and this I did with ease. 


576 


THE WATTERSONS. 


They placed themselves and their fortunes unreservedly in 
my hands, when I had succeeded in proving to them that my 
schemes, though far-reaching and in a way venturesome, 
were sound at bottom. With the revenues of war in my 
possession it was necessary to get possession of another 
commodity — brains — with which to work. This was a task 
more difficult. The antiquated business methods of those 
days had developed a race of business men who were in- 
capable of doing the work I required. Davidson, for in- 
stance, is worth his weight in gold, properly controlled and 
directed, a man among a thousand, incapable of conceiving 
anything himself, but capable of carrying out the most gi- 
gantic schemes when controlled and directed by another 
man. But men of Davidson’s calibre were rare in those 
days.” 

He paused to shake his head, with reminiscent sadness, 
smiling indulgently at the old-fogyism of those days. Far- 
raday nodded comprehendingly and smiled encouragingly. 

'Tn the course of time I did discover several men, who, 
with the requisite training, were fitted for my purpose,” 
resumed the banker, '^and then I was ready to begin opera- 
tions. I looked far into the future, studying the conditions 
of the country, measuring its probable growth in popula- 
tion and increase in wealth, and I laid my plans accordingly. 
Believing in the development of the West, I invested heavily 
in Western lands, which were then dirt cheap, and in rail- 
roads newly building. By means of my holdings in rail- 
roads I was able to enormously increase the value of the 
lands I held, by establishing stations near them and encour- 
aging immigration and the building of towns. I was fortu- 
nate in various mining ventures and in small railroad spec- 
ulations and enterprises of various kinds. I established 
many banks in this State in the meantime, with other peo- 
ple’s money chiefly, and controlled them all from my head- 
quarters here. I interested myself in many widely dififering 
lines of business, and, believing thoroughly in modern busi- 
ness methods, I did away with the old-fashioned system 
everywhere, and always to my advantage. I organized con- 
cerns of magnitude into stock companies, formed combina- 
tions of competing lines of business, working always to gain 


GLORIES IN HIS GREATNESS. 577 

a monopoly of a given line. I succeeded in launching several 
corporations that now embrace the entire country, doing 
business in every State. All this required time, of course, 
many years indeed, and much labor and worry, but at the 
end of fifteen years I had pretty well succeeded in my 
purposes.’' 

Thus with a word he dismissed the awful cares and 
responsibilities that had rested upon his broad shoulders 
during those years. They had been very heavy — so heavy at 
times and harrassing, that he had on one or two well-re- 
membered occasions shut himself up in his shop at home, 
dismissing all business from his mind for days at a stretch, 
purely to save himself from mental wreck. 

''At the end of fifteen years,” the banker continued, 
"the greatest problem of all confronted me; that was how 
to reinvest the income and accruing profits of my many en- 
terprises. The money came in in a perfect stream, faster 
than I could find relieving avenues for it. I became inter- 
ested in eastern railroads, in shipping, in telegraph and tele- 
phone lines, coal, oil, steel, stone, lumber, grain, — in any- 
thing and everything, in a word, that ofifered a reasonably 
safe investment. But still and all the money came streaming 
in, an ever increasing torrent, and all that saved me from 
being swamped was the banks I had established and the 
connections they gave me with banks in neighboring states 
and the larger commercial centers of the country. And so 
it went on. The few thousands I had started out with be- 
came millions, and the ball is still rolling and gaining 
momentum with every forward bound.” 

He paused again and sat for a space in silence, gazing 
through the wide window up at the court-house clock. 

"My success, my boy, was due to foresight, to courage 
and ceaseless endeavor,” he pursued. "Work is a lever that 
will move worlds. Work wisely, and with method. Depend 
upon yourself, but employ the brains of others. I am not 
through yet. I have much work to do. I have attained an 
eminence, it is true, from whence I can look down on the 
struggling horde, but I have by no means attained my aim. 
I am near the goal^ and in a few years’ time will stand upon 
the summit and look down upon the whole world, and those 


578 


THE WATTERSONS. 


who now regard me as an adventurer who has risen to 
fortune and eminence by a series of lucky strokes, will learn 
to know me for what I am/’ 

He rose to all his burly height, and stretched forth his 
arm in triumph, as if already the world was at his feet, 
and he its master. Farraday smiled indulgently. 

'‘And now for a word or two of counsel to ambitious 
youngsters,” he said, grinning in anticipation of what was 
coming. 

"Well,” replied the banker, musing, "I would advise 
close application, because that is an absolute essential to suc- 
cess in any vocation. He should love his work, else he can’t 
interest himself sufficiently in it to make it go. That I think 
is self-evident, or should be. If he doesn’t love the business 
he’s in, let him get out of it and try another. Everyone is 
peculiarly fitted for some one thing. It may be law, medi- 
cine, preaching, or business; as there are many branches 
of business, he should study himself and see in which di- 
rection his inclination guides him. It may lead him to be- 
come a banker, or a merchant; if the former, he’ll manage 
to establish himself somehow or other; if his instincts in- 
cline to the latter, he’ll start out with a pack on his back, 
and, by putting his whole soul into it, keeping a sharp look- 
out far ahead, and seizing opportunities and advantages 
as they rise, he’s bound to succeed.” 

"How about honesty, fair dealing, and so forth and so 
on, Mr. Marblemore? Are they not necessary to success?” 

"Oh, yes,” replied Mr. Marblemore, indifferently. 
Johnson came in with a letter which he handed to his chief. 
"Yes, oh yes. Business honor is essential. One must meet 
one’s obligations promptly, of course. As for fair dealing, 
that depends upon the point of view. We’re all bandits 
preying upon our kind. If you, seeing an advantage ignore 
it because by reaping its benefits you are likely to injure 
Smith across the way, you are a fool. Smith wouldn’t over- 
look it. Any one aiming at success in business must not 
be too squeamish, my boy.” 

"Good !” cried Farraday, rubbing his hands. Here was 
a man who spoke straight from the shoulder. He was about 
to continue his questioning, when he saw an awful change 


GLORIES IN HIS GREATNESS. 


579 


come over the banker. He had opened the letter in a leis- 
urely way while speaking, and glancing down at it when 
he had finished, he suddenly started to his feet, overturning 
the ponderous chair, and clutching at his throat. Farraday 
was startled. 

''Damnation gasped the banker, staring down at the 
letter, which read as follows : 

"Mr. Marblemore: You think Mr. Ringrose is your 
friend, but you are mistaken. You think your wife a model 
of purity and virtue, but you are wrong. They are friends ; 
your wife and the preacher, ah, such friends. They are de- 
ceiving you, you fool ! He visits her every day and has done 
so for months, spending hours with her. No doubt the time 
is spent piously, in prayer. He is with her now, this mo- 
ment. Go home and you will find them together. — A 
Friend.’’ 

"Johnson,” cried the banker, in tones of thunder. 

Johnson came running in, pale and agitated. The men 
in the rear bent low over their ledgers. 

"When did this letter come?” demanded Mr. Marble- 
more. 

, "A moment ago, sir.” 

"How? How? How?” 

"A boy brought it, sir.” 

"Where is he?” 

"I tried to detain him, sir, but he ran away as fast as he 
could, sir.” 

Without another word the banker rushed past him 
and out into the street. Farraday gazing after him in great 
astonishment, muttered one word. 

"Mad!” 

The cool autumn sun streamed down upon the banker’s 
bald head, as he sped across the street, and across the court- 
house lawn towards the corner of that street in which stood 
the gorgeous mansion he had erected as a monument to his 
greatness. People paused in the utmost astonishment to 
stare at the spectacle of the usually stiff and haughty banker 
hurrying hatless and almost on the run down the street. 
But he pushed on, noticing no one. He panted hard, for he 
was no longer slender or light of limb. His breath came in 


58 o 


THE WATTERSONS. 


gasps, but he went on, running a few steps now, now walk- 
ing with enormous strides, until he reached his own lawn. 
Glancing up he saw Aunt Sadie just disappearing into the 
house. Pausing for a moment to recover his breath, he 
again looked down at the letter which he held crumpled 
in his hand. There could be no word of truth in it, for was 
not Aunt Sadie there? But Aunt Sadie, like himself, had 
just arrived ! He hastened on, up the steps and through the 
front door, bursting upon the astonished servants, wild- 
eyed, purple and sweating with the heat and haste of un- 
accustomed running. 

‘Where is he?'’ he gasped. 

The man stared. 

“Ringrose? Is he here?" 

Without a word the man pointed to the door of a room, 
whose threshold Aunt Sadie had just crossed. The banker 
plunged after her like a mad bull. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


AN EXPLOSION. 

Mr. Ringrose’s face was pale and set as he walked away 
from the wretched woman’s house. He was desperate. The 
end was at hand. Nothing now could save him. In those 
moments of fierce despair a great resolution formed itself 
in his mind. He determined to call upon Sister Marble- 
more and once for all resolve his doubts regarding her. In 
his heart there burned an unholy passion for that beautiful 
woman, a passion, the gratification of which he was un- 
willing to forego. In his desperation he resolved to venture 
all upon a cast of the die, and stand or fall, as fortune 
favored or frowned upon him. Would she be at home, he 
wondered? His visits to Sister Marblemore had been few 
and far between of late. Her manner had undergone a 
decided change toward him. She no longer met his eyes 
as formerly. She came rarely to church now, 'and always 
went away without greeting him. She was often away from 
home when he called. She was cold to him and distant 
when by chance they met. He remembered her former bear- 
ing, her glances of passion replying to his own, and her 
coldness now only added fuel to his passion. In the light of 
these early passages, he had little difficulty in construing 
her present attitude as favorable to him. She was weary of 
his fruitless pursuit. Women love bold men. They ad- 
mire courage and despise cowards. She scorned his hesita- 
tion, and took this means of showing her contempt of a 
lover so timorous. Thus the man reasoned, and had rea- 
soned long, without being able to summon the courage to do 
and dare, which sheer desperation gave to him now. 

But would she be at home? Everything hinged upon 
her presence and willingness to see him, for he felt that 
never again would he . feel the courage within him that 
swelled there now. The servant looked doubtful. She was 
at home, but she was preparing to go out. Time was when 


582 


THE WATTERSONS. 


he would not have hesitated, but he looked doubtful now. 
Would His Reverence step into the reception room? 
His Reverence followed the man not into the little chamber 
where she had always received him, but into a small draw- 
ing-room opening ofif the wide hallway to the left. The 
room was circular in form, being at the base of the tower. 
The windows were somewhat high placed, with wide em- 
brasures, and small panes of glass fashioned so as to carry 
out the effect of an antique quaintness, in keeping with 
the tower. There were three in all; the one in the center 
looked out upon the side lawn, from whence His Reverence, 
as he stood beside it waiting, could see between the dark 
green fringe formed by a ' number of low growing ever- 
greens, the upper windows of the neighboring mansion. 
The thick lace curtains were looped back and the window 
was opened a bit above and a bit below. 

A half hour passed slowly away. Mr. Ringrose became 
impatient. Three-quarters had gone and His Reverence was 
on the point of summoning a servant, when he heard a 
rustling behind him. Turning quickly he beheld Mrs. Mar- 
blemore. She advanced a step or two, then paused as he ap- 
proached. His eyes glowed. He was fairly astounded by 
the woman's beauty, which to his eyes was doubtless height- 
ened by the passion that consumed him. She wore a loose, 
flowing gown of her favorite light blue color, which shim- 
mered softly in the light. She did not smile as he advanced, 
though her lips twitched a little in a perfunctory way. Her 
eyes roved past him. She looked cold and distant. He 
pressed her hand with even more than usual unction, re- 
marking upon the weather. The sight of her so cold and 
beautiful, almost deprived him of courage, but he was des- 
perate. She motioned him to a chair, but herself remained 
standing, with the air of one who has little time to spare. 

“I have come to remonstrate gently with you. Sister 
Marblemore," he said softly. ‘'You are very seldom at 
church now, and we all miss you sadly." 

He stroked his silky black beard with trembling fingers. 
She looked straight at him for a fleeting moment, her long 
eye-lashes trembling, then she turned away her eyes with- 
out a word. 


AN EXPLOSION. 583 

“Why, Sister?’^ said the man, conveying all his passion 
into his eyes. “Why — Mary?’’ 

It was the first time that he had ventured to address 
her thus since that awful hour of temptation. She looked 
at him again, but haughtily now and with indignation. 

“I do not understand your — your manner, sir,” she 
said, in a trembling voice. t 

“You do, Mary, you do,’.’ he cried, with a sudden out- 
burst of passion. “Oh, you understand me well, Mary. 
Forgive me for hesitating so long. I should have been 
bolder I know. I don’t blame you for despising my caution. 
But you are so beautiful in my eyes, and so highly placed 
that I felt humbled and afraid.” 

She did not melt nor cry out, nor sink into his arms 
as he had half-expected. On the contrary, she drew herself 
up and retreated a step or two as he advanced. 

“Sir, I say again that I do not understand you,” she 
said. “I do not desire to understand you. You had better 
go.” 

“No, Mary. I have not been blind to what your eyes 
have told me. I can see and read and comprehend, and I 
have seen that in yours which tells me that you love me as 
I love you. Let us go away together. You are unhappy 
here. I will make your future life happy. You love me, I 
know. I have seen it in your beautiful eyes often, very 
often, but I feared to speak. Who am I to aspire to you ?” 

“Mr. Ringrose,” said Mary, drawing away from him 
with a shudder of strong repugnance. “I say again that 
you are in error.” She was very pale and frightened, pant- 
ing with terror, indeed, as she pressed against the wall, 
shrinking from his approach. She had long ago measured 
the man and she loathed him utterly now, but she could 
not shake off the haunting memory of her early 
infatuation. She could not forget her guilty 
thoughts of long ago, and she wished to shield 
this man, upon whom they had centered, from the 
consequences of this folly. “If you do not go, I shall call 
the servants,” she said more firmly. “I do not understand 
a word you say. Let me be as if it had never been, only 
go at once!” 


584 


THE WATTERSONS. 


There was a narrow door within reach of her hand, 
towards which she turned as if to leave him. 

‘'Stop, Mary!’’ cried His Reverence, agitatedly. “You 
cannot mean what you say. Are you afraid of him — your 
husband? You cannot mean, Mary, after what your eyes 
have told me, that you do not love me ! You cannot possibly 
mean that.” . 

The mention of her husband stirred in Mary the deep- 
est indignation. * 

“Are you not ashamed to mention him?” she replied, 
turning upon him with a countenance flaming hot with anger. 
“It is the duty of one of your calling, sir, to set an example 
of virtue and rectitude. Instead, you are seeking to destroy 
it in those who ought to look to you for strength and 
guidance. I detest you ! Your presence horrifies me ! I 
ask you to go — now — at once !” she continued, with growing 
excitement, “I loath the sight of you. Ever since you came 
here, you have been trying to destroy my peace of mind 
using your sacred office to cloak your real designs, almost to 
my undoing. And he — my husband — your friend, who has 
done you nothing but kindness — he knows nothing. I have 
shielded you from his wrath for long, because of your call- 
ing, but if you do not go at once, I shall ring — let the 
consequences be what they may. Dear God!” she ended 
with a burst of violent sobbing, “that I should come to 
this. I!” 

She stood before him with covered face weeping, a 
woman shamed, stricken to the heart by an overwhelming 
sense of degradation the consequence of her own mad 
folly and blindness. The minister almost stunned with sur- 
prise stood staring at her. He understood her now. She did 
not love him. She hated him. She had said so. Then what of 
those glances that had passed between them ? What of those 
trembling sighs of long ago, those hand pressures which 
she had permitted him, and — aye, returned ? What of them ? 
Oh, fool, fool that he was ! She had loved him then ! Had 
he spoken then as boldly as now she would have been his ! 
But he had let slip the opportunity in pure caution and 
timidity, and scorning his cowardice, she had learned to 
despise the wretch she could have loved ! Fool that he was ! 


AN EXPLOSION. 


58s 


He pressed his hand to his brow in a fury of baffled passion. 
She had never looked so beautiful as in that moment of 
anger, shame and woe. He stood for one moment staring 
at her, passion raging in his heart, then forgetting all 
caution, he sprang forward and caught her in his arms. 

''Mary, you cannot mean it,'' he cried desperately. 
"Listen to me, Mary ! do, do listen !" for she was strug- 
gling madly to free herself from his encircling arms. "I 
was a fool, a coward not to speak and you are right to be 
angry with me ; but down in your heart you love me, 
Mary. You do, you do! You are only angry and afraid, 
Mary, listen ; I am going away for good and all — to-night — 
at once. I've got to go, Mary." 

Utterly exhausted Mary ceased her struggles and for 
one moment lay helpless, almost fainting in his arms ! And 
in that moment a cry rang through the room, a sort of 
choking gasp, and tearing herself free from his relaxing 
grasp, she turned and beheld Aunt Sadie standing there pale 
with horror, and behind Aunt Sadie — her husband ! One 
glance she cast at them and fell swooning to the floor. 

Mr. Marblemore had come plunging in behind Aunt 
Sadie in time to see it all, and the sight had nailed him to 
the spot. For one moment only, the banker remained in- 
active, motionless, stupefied almost, then crossed the room 
with a bound, leaping for the man with his enormous hands 
stretched out to grasp him, roaring like a mad man. Had 
he caught the preacher, he would have torn him limb from 
limb, for there was at the bottom of this man's nature a 
savagery like that of a gorilla, which terrible animal he in- 
deed resembled in his burly frame, and never more so than 
in his headlong fury, as he came leaping for the minister. 

Mr. Ringrose overwhelmed for the moment with sur- 
prise and fear, had remained rooted to the spot; but at 
sight of this furious animal approaching him, he gathered 
his scattered wits together, and turned to flee. The door 
opening into the hall was full of gaping servants ; he had no 
time to reach the other door ; the windows offered the only 
means of escape. He made for the one nearest him with all 
the speed that terror inspires, and leaping upon the broad 
sill, he plunged headforemost through, taking sash and all 


586 


THE WATTERSONS. 


with him in his fall. The crash of broken glass and wood 
was echoed by the cries of the frightened servants. The 
banker rushing for the minister brought up hard against 
the window sill, and remained for an instant staring stupe- 
fied at the ruin wrought by the fleeing man ; then turned 
slowly as he stood, glaring around the room as if in search 
of some object upon which to wreak his rage. The ser- 
vants vanished before the blasting fury of his glance. 

He saw Aunt Sadie white and motionless reclining un- 
conscious as she had fallen in a huge arm chair ; he saw his 
wife lying almost at his feet with face all pale and eyes 
open, staring up at him in speechless terror. He bent over 
her in that gorilla-like attitude with his clinched hands 
stretched out behind him, and stared down into her eyes for 
moments. She shrank from his glance, cowering against 
the wall. 

''Get up,'’ he said, in a scarcely audible vioce. 

She obeyed him, rising slowly and with difficulty,’ for 
she trembled in every limb. 

"Go to your room," he said in the same voice. 

She went away, passing with bowed head through the 
door nearest her. He remained staring at the door through 
which she had vanished, for almost a minute when a 
trembling sigh recalled his attention to Aunt Sa^die. He 
hastened to her side and kneeling down began to chafe her 
hands. 

"Sadie ! Sadie !" he called. 

She sighed again and opened her eyes and stared at 
him for the space of half a minute, in gathering surprise. 
But it all came back to her at once and with a heart break- 
ing cry of woe, she covered her face with her hands. 

"Hush !" he said, gently ; "don’t cry over it. See 
Sadie, I do not cry.’’ 

"Why do you say that, Andrew?’’ cried Aunt Sadie, 
rising eagerly. "Why should you say that?’’ she repeated, 
tremblingly. 

He turned away his head with a bitter smile. 

"Oh, Andrew, you cannot believe Mary guilty of 
wrong? Surely, surely, Andrew, you cannot but believe 
Mary — our Mary innocent?’’ 


AN EXPLOSION. 


587 


She stood all pale and trembling, pleading eagerly for 
a word to reassure her doubting heart. But no word came 
and she sank back in the chair with a cry that pierced his 
tortured heart. 

''Do you remember years ago, Sadie, the cruel decep- 
tion she practiced upon Sherman?’’ said Mr. Marblemore 
heavily. "If she was capable then of that, she is not incapa- 
ble of worse.” 

"Andrew, did you see the look on her face? Oh, I am 
sure she is innocent! There is something here that we 
do not understand. Do not accuse her Andrew. Think! 
she is your wife ! she loves you dearly.” 

"She does not — she never loved me !” cried the husband 
fiercely. "Never! never! Although I thought, of late — 
God help me ! — I thought — but that is over now. Remember 
your boy, Sadie.” 

"Andrew,” said Aunt Sadie resolutely, "let us go to 
her. Come; she can explain this terrible mistake.” 

"No; there is no mistake,” he replied huskily. "Did 
you not see her in the man’s arms? Can you imagine a 
man entering another man’s house and embracing his wife 
unless much has gone before ? Bah ! I can understand 
it all now, her sweetness to me of late, her smiles and 
kisses! It was to conceal her guilt with this man that she 
tried to cajole me with a show of tenderness.” 

"Oh is it possible that after years of love and devotion, 
you can turn against her in a single moment, and believe 
her guilty of this awful thing?” 

"You do not know, Sadie ! She never cared for me. 
There have been no years of love and devotion. All was 
coldness and indifference until of late — I thought — I 
thought — ” 

He sank into a chair with a groan. 

"Andrew, this thing is so terrible, so awful that you 
durst not judge her unheard. I will go to her, Andrew — ” 

"No, Sadie, I will not permit it. If she is innocent 
she will come to me. I will call the carriage, Sadie,” and 
going out he gave the order and returned. 

"Andrew, you — you will not be harsh or over-hasty,” 


588 


THE WATTERSONS. 


said Aunt Sadie imploringly. '‘Oh, I cannot, will not be- 
lieve it.’’ 

"Do you know this writing, Sadie?” he asked, showing 
her the letter. "Read it.” She did so slowly and painfully 
the while he stood regarding her with clenched hand. "Do 
you know the writing?” he asked again. 

Aunt Sadie shook her head ; but looking closely down, 
she had little difficulty in making out the name of Mrs. 
Rosewood, which had first been signed, then barely 
half erased, and the words, "A Friend,” substituted. 

"This was written by Mrs. Rosewood,” she said looking 
up. 

"It was brought to the bank. I was almost stunned 
when I read it. I came rushing home at once. It never 
occurred to me to doubt Mary, nor did I for one instant 
believe that the man whom I had treated as a friend and 
brother had entertained the thought of wronging me. But — 
but — I was enraged — maddened, that anyone should dare to 
speak of my wife in such terms. I wanted to see Mary in 
all her purity. I wanted to show her this note, and with her 
confront the author, whom I would have strangled with 
mighty little compunction. If I had found the man alone 
I would have ordered him from my house. I — I was en- 
raged.” 

He broke off stammering, incoherent, sobbing, "I came 
in behind you, and saw her weeping in the man’s arms.” 

"She can explain Andrew,” said Aunt Sadie eagerly.” 

"She cannot. If she is innocent why did she not de- 
clare it?” 

"An innocent woman would not protest, . Andrew. It 
is only guilt that cries out upon detection.” 

"She fainted at sight of her outraged husband,” he 
went on angrily, paying no heed to her words. 

"An innocent woman placed in so horrible a position 
would naturally be overcome with shame and horror. Oh, 
Andrew, the more I think of it the more convinced I am 
that Mary is innocent !” 

"Bah ! Remember your boy, Sadie. But come, here 
is the carriage.” 

His stern demeanor precluded all further argument. 


AN EXPLOSION. 


589 


Aunt Sadie leaned heavily on his arm going out. The 
shock had been very great. The strong woman could hardly 
hold herself upright. 

The sun was sinking in the West when he returned to 
the room. He gazed at it through the wreck of the window. 
He brought a chair, and mounting it, looked down below 
the window where the man must have fallen. The lawn 
was strewn with broken glass and the remnants of the 
sash, but the man had doubtless with that rare good for- 
tune attending such villains escaped all injury. He took a 
turn or two through the room, with his hands clasped be- 
hind him and his head bowed upon his breast. Who can 
tell the thoughts seething through that mighty mind? Not 
I. They were very terrible without doubt, but very pitiful, 
too. He sighed once or twice heavily but checked the 
mournful sound with an angry scowl. He took up various 
pretty knick-knacks, Mary's treasures and gazed at them 
wistfully, then dashed them on the floor. He rang the bell, 
but dismissed the servant that answered it with an im- 
patient wave of the hand. He strode through the room 
like an enraged lion, knocking the furniture about, but at 
last sank into a chair and bowing his head upon, the table, 
he burst into a sobbing cry that shook his burly frame like 
a leaf. 

Aunt Sadie went home from that awful scene with her 
nervous system completely shattered. She kept up for a 
week, striving by a vigorous fast to drive out the wasting 
fever that seemed to sear itself into her very brain, but on 
the morning of the eighth day, she felt too weak to rise 
and sending for her brother, she told him that she was in 
for a long illness. 

'T fear it is brain fever, brother," she said. 

Winfield knelt down beside the bed utterly distraught, 
and for a moment blinded by a rush of tears. 

''Sadie, my Sadie," was all that he could say. 

He kissed her hands and took her poor bursting head 
in his arms. For a long time he remained quite speech- 
less, gazing imploringly into those dear eyes, which re- 
turned his gaze so tenderly but with a troubled anguish in 
their velvety depths which he understood only too well. 


590 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''You do not believe it, Winfield?'’ she whispered. "Oh, 
my Mary! So sweet, so beautiful and good! Oh, it can- 
not be true. I will never, never believe it. Say it is not 
true, Winfield." 

"It is not true, Sadie, do not take it so to heart, dear 
Sadie. No doubt it can all be explained." 

"My boy must not know of my sickness, Winfield. 
Oh, my head ! Send for Doctor Fairfield, he knows my 
prejudices against medicines, and he will respect them. 
And Winfield," she added smiling a little shamefacedly, "if 
it is brain fever they may want to cut off my hair, and I 
should be so sorry to lose my beautiful hair, brother." 

"They shall not touch it, Sadie." 

"Not unless my life is endangered, and they must be 
very, very sure. Now, call Myrtle." 

' Fortunately, it was not brain fever at all, but a nervous 
prostration, which while not as violent in its action, was 
quite as dangerous and more lingering. 


CHAPTER XLVIL 


RETRIBUTION. 

Mary went to her room at her husband’s command, and 
sinking into a deep arm-chair, she remained for hours star- 
ing down at the carpet contemplating her ruin. The sun 
went down and dusk gave way to night, but still she sat 
there motionless. 'fThe officious maid, unable to rouse her 
mistress, went away at a late hour, and she was left alone 
in her sadness and ruin. She could not think. A kind of 
stupor had settled upon her brain. All the incidents of that 
awful hour were jumbled confusedly in her mind. But she 
vividly recalled her husband’s terrible anger, and the recol- 
lection filled her with shuddering horror. She heard his 
footstep on the stairs, and she waited pale and trembling. 
He went into his room adjoining her chamber, and there 
she heard him walking with measured tread up and down, 
up and down, for hours and hours. Sometimes a sound as 
of a groan came to her. Again a deep sob followed by 
heart-breaking sighs, which wrung her heart with pity for 
him and anguish for his suffering. Oh, he had loved her 
deeply, truly! He had worshipped her with a passion that 
t only mighty men can feel. And this was the end. He be- 
lieved her guilty of this awful thing! 

I The noises in the street died out long after all sounds 

in the mansion had ceased. A deadly stupor seemed to en- 
J velope the town. Mary sat there without moving all that 
night. She heard the tread of her husband and marked the 
I moments when he rested. She heard the town clock boom- 
ing out the passing hours. She heard the barking of dogs 
I around her, and the crowing of cocks in the distance as 
I the night merged into morning. The first footfall in the 
I street, the soft roll of the earliest passing vehicle came up 
to her, and then the re-awakening of the household. 

Towards morning her head began to throb and her 
brain became clearer, and then she recalled with startling 


592 


THE WATTERSONS. 


distinctness the incidents of the preceding evening — the 
man’s coming — his mad declaration — her scorn of him — his 
desperation — Aunt Sadie’s scream and her husband’s wild 
anger. She could trace every step leading to the terrible 
culmination. The man’s eyes had fascinated her, had carried 
her out of herself. She had thought of him for weeks and 
months, had encouraged his advances, had listened to his 
veiled proposal, had even started to meet him, when 
opportunely turned aside from her mad purpose by 
the promptings of her better nature. She was not 
guilty save in thought and purpose. She had turned 
aside, though at a late hour. She was innocent 
then of actual wrong, but he — her husband — be- 
lieved her guilty! She was not guilty. She repeated this 
over and over again as if to reassure her doubting heart. 
She was not guilty, no, but could she face her husband with 
this declaration upon her lips? She who had wronged him 
in her thoughts, who in design had betrayed and dishonored 
him? Could she go to him and say that she was innocent? 
She began to cry softly sitting there. She loved her hus- 
band now. She had begun to love him in that very hour of 
internal strife, and the love had grown upon her day by 
day. It was not an all-absorbing passion such as she had 
been capable of in her youth, but a deep, sincere affection, 
founded upon esteem that would endure through all her life. 

Her happiness had been very great during the past 
few months. She had reveled in the new found joy of 
loving her husband. She was not a demonstrative woman, 
but she showed her tenderness in many ways. She had 
met him on his home-coming with smiling words, she had 
shown a deep interest in his vast projects. She had spent 
hours in the little shop upstairs with her husband, inquiring 
into the nature of the various inventions. She had talked 
with him’ and had charmed him with her sweet amiability. 
When he was away she had written long loving letters to 
him, and had followed his career with eagerness and joy. 
It was surprising how happy she had become in that short 
interval. And now all this was to end. He believed her 
guilty, would think her late tenderness nothing more than 
hypocritical blandishments to hide her evil intimacy with 


RETRIBUTION. 


593 


the man she loathed ! Oh, it was impossible ! Oh, God ! 
why could she not have been left to her happiness ? She had 
erred, but she had repented in bitter grief and shame. Why 
could she not have been left undisturbed in her joy? Must 
every sin be paid for thus in anguish ? 

The morning was far advanced when she heard her 
husband’s footstep approaching her door. He came in and 
she cast one swift glance at him, and was struck with 
grief and horror at the change in him. He seemed to have 
grown years older in that single night. His ruddy color was 
gone. He looked strangely haggard and shrunken and his 
cheeks were covered with a sickly leaden hue. She saw 
the alteration in one quick upward glance and her heart was 
struck with pity and remorse. She longed to throw herself 
at his feet and beg his forgiveness. He looked at her as 
he came in. Her attitude and pale, haggard aspect told him 
that she had not slept. He took a turn or two through the 
room before speaking. 

“Have you not slept, Mary?” he said presently. 

His voice was not unkind ; his glance was wistful. She 
tried to answer him but felt a choking sensation in her 
throat. She slowly shook her head. 

“That was bad,” he said. “You should have gone to 
bed.” 

Tears came into Mary’s eyes at his gentle tone. He 
walked up and down the room once or twice without speak- 
ing. 

“Mary,” he said, pausing at some distance from her. 
“I have been thinking all night trying to determine a course 
of action. I will tell you what I have resolved upon. If 
the man was unmarried I would free you, but he has a 
family and he could not provide for you. I have brought 
this on myself, I know. You told me very plainly before 
we married that you did not love me, but I was headstrong 
and would not heed my better judgment. It is a punishment. 
I should have thought, though, that after all these years — 
but let that pass. I know I am not a lovable man, and I 
was wrong to think that love would beget love in return 
when other qualities were lacking. This man’s conduct, I 
cannot overlook. Considering his calling, my friendship 


594 


THE WATTERSONS. 


and his family, it was infamous. It is perhaps well that he 
escaped me last evening. I was upon , reflection inclined to 
let him go, thinking that he was but a man, and that as 
such he would have been a fool to reject that which, no 
doubt, was freely ofifered him, but upon deeper reflection I 
have changed my mind. He must and shall be punished. 
I shall visit him presently and I shall take a horsewhip 
along.’’ 

He paused, glancing sharply at her, as if to mark the 
impression his purpose made. She showed strong agita- 
tion, but for a far deeper reason than he supposed. She 
was sitting in a strained attitude, staring down at the rug. 
Her cheeks were flushed and her bosom heaving. He 
turned away with a bitter little smile. 

^'The course I have determined on may not meet with 
your approbation, but, if so, you have an alternative,” he 
resumed. ''I shall not go to New York as I proposed, but 
shall remain here. I shall dismiss the servants, and take a 
small house near by — the smaller, the better. This mansion 
I shall raze to the ground. I will not leave one stone upon 
another and I will destroy everything in it. You shall have 
a taste of poverty, you shall be your own housekeeper, your 
own servant. That is how people lived in my younger days 
and wives were virtuous then. Riches and idleness have 
corrupted your morals, possibly a return to old conditions 
will restore that sense of right and wrong which you have 
to all appearances lost. I will share your labors, your com- 
pany and your fare. We will face the world together and — 
and — and — ” 

He broke down completely here and leaned against the 
window sobbing with terrible intensity. 

^^Andrew! Husband!” 

Mary started up pierced to the heart by his grief, and 
threw herself on her knees at his feet holding up her hands 
to him. He quelled his emotion by a powerful effort, and 
shrunk away from her. 

“Sit down, Mary,” he said sternly. She obeyed him, 
wringing her hands. “I have said that I will do this, but 
I need hardly tell a woman of your intelligence, that you are 
free to go or stay as you please. You can go away if you 


RETRIBUTION. 595 

desire and I will make suitable provision for you. What 
will you do ? Go or stay 

''I will stay/’ she replied, in a low voice. 

He bowed and went away. She sank down on her 
knees and gave way to tears. But she was not wholly un- 
happy. She had feared that he would banish her from his 
sight, but this was not to be. She would stay by his side 
and earnestly strive to regain his esteem and love. She 
would await a favorable moment and confess all to him, 
make clear to him the extent of her guilt, and her real inno- 
cence. Thus she thought weeping. How noble he was ! 
how good and kind ! How considerate even in his scorn of 
her! He believed her guilty, yet he remained by her side, 
voluntarily facing the world with her hand in his, pro- 
tecting her with his name and guarding her by his presence. 
She marveled how he could think her guilty of this awful 
thing, not thinking of the deception of long ago, which 
made this crime seem not only possible but in every degree 
probable. 

''Send John to me,” said Mr. Marblemore to a servant 
who answered his ring. 

John, the coachman, presented himself very shortly in 
his master’s room. 

"Bring the carriage around, John.” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"And John—” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Take your heaviest horsewhip along. I shall need it.” 

He strode up and down the room with his hands clasped 
behind him while awaiting the carriage. Johnson was an- 
nounced. 

"Mr. Andrews is waiting at the bank, sir,” he said. 
"Very important, he says.” 

"I can’t come.” 

"He is very insistent, sir,” said Johnson, with a little 
deprecating cough. "Davidson, too, is there and Demorest 
and Bentley and Montario and — meeting day, sir, of the 
directors — ” 

"I cannot come,” the banker interrupted him harshly. 

Johnson retreated with very great haste. 


596 


THE WATTERSONS. 


‘‘Drive to Mr. Ringrose’s house, John,’’ said Mr. 
Marblemore as he got into the carriage. 

People stared curiously after him as he rolled along. 
The servants had, of course, spread the astounding scandal 
all over town. There was quite a crowd gathered in front 
of the little white house in which Mrs. Rosewood dwelt. 

“What is it, John?” asked the banker, looking up. 

“The widow is dead, sir,” replied John. “A boy 
found her this morning. Poisoned herself. Laudanum.” 
“Ah !” 

He said no more and they went on quickly. John 
brought the carriage to a standstill in front of the parsonage 
and Mr. Marblemore got out. 

“Give me the whip, John,” he said, “and wait.” 

Mrs. Ringrose opened the door in answer to his ring. 
Her eyes were red with weeping. She started back upon be- 
holding the stern face of the banker and tried to close the 
door but he put her aside, and strode past her into the house. 
He threw open the first door he came to which happened to 
be the minister’s study; it was empty. He looked into the 
parlor, the sitting-room, the dining-room and kitchen — all 
empty. Mrs. Ringrose followed him about everywhere 
whimpering, poor little thing as she plucked at his sleeve 
and besought him tearfully to go away. 

“Please go away, sir,” she said weeping. “Pm afraid 
of you. Please go away.” 

He paid no attention to her plea, nor even noticed her. 
Finding all the rooms below empty, he went upstairs as 
inexorably as fate, the little woman following at his heels 
whimpering and imploring him to go away because she was 
afraid of him. He looked into one room after another and 
in the fourth, he came upon the children asleep. Even the 
sight of the little ones in their innocent slumbers did not 
turn him from his purpose, though he paused one moment 
to look down at them with a softening expression on his 
haggard face. The fifth door was locked, and he was 
obliged to burst it open, which he did by hurling himself 
against it with all the force of his burly body. It flew open 
with a crash and there was His Reverence sitting upright 
in bed. Softly he closed the door behind him, shutting 


RETRIBUTION. 


597 


Mrs. Ringrose out and bolting it within. The little woman 
cried out in terror for she had caught a glimpse of her hus- 
band’s white face. She fell upon the door with petty vio- 
lence, belaboring it with her hands until they were bruised. 
She heard her husband’s voice in accents of terror imploring 
mercy. 

“Brother — Mr. Marblenlore,” the wretch stammered. 
“You cannot mean violence, sir. Remember my cloth, 
Brother — ” 

“Your cloth !” replied the banker, between set teeth. 
“Hah! Yes, I’ll remember it. In this way.” 

There came a dreadful cutting sound followed by a cry 
of anguish, another and another, then a whole shower ming- 
ling with cries of pain and pleas for mercy. The little 
j woman cried out and belabored the door furiously. She 
! heard them running about, the one fleeing, the other pursu- 

f; ing. She heard the crash of falling furniture but always 

above every sound, mingling with her husband’s cries, came 
. the dreadful cut of the heavy whip wielded by a powerful 

I arm and one that knew no mercy. The sounds of running 

I' ceased, the cries became fainter and died out but still the 

'I lash of the whip came out to her. And then all became 

j quiet. The bolt was withdrawn and the door opened and 

' Mr. Marblemore, panting and sweating, came out. The 

I little woman darted past him and threw herself with a 

piercing cry upon an insensible mass lying motionless in 
^ one corner. 

“Drive home, John,” said Mr. Marblemore getting into 
I the carriage. “Never mind the whip. It has answered its 
[ purpose and is useless now. Drive home.” 
f John drove home and Mr. Marblemore, getting out, 

f went into the house and going upstairs locked himself in his 
f shop denying himself to all comers. And there he remained, 
I not hours merely or days, but weeks and months pondering 
' over his inventions. He took his meals there, for exercise 
he walked the length of the room, up and down, up and 
! down, for hours. He slept in a room adjoining. He would 
see no one, neither Johnson, Davidson, Andrews, nor any 
of a score of business associates who all aghast and lost 
without the master mind to direct them, saw with anguish 


598 


THE WATTERSONS. 


and horror one vast project after another abandoned. Mr. 
Davidson was placed at the head of the bank, and seconded 
by Mr. Watterson, and ably assisted by the great banker’s 
numerous lieutenants, he did his best to grapple with the 
gigantic affairs left undirected by the master’s abrupt with- 
drawal. 

Mary waited eagerly for the inauguration of those 
changes of which her husband had spoken, but days passed, 
weeks, months, and he made no sign. Things went on much 
the same in the great mansion. Master and mistress lived 
apart, rarely even seeing each other. Mary watched over 
her husband, though wholly unknown to him, and saw to 
it that all his material wants were supplied, and lived in 
hopes day by day of winning him back again. 

Mrs. Rosewood’s death was duly investigated.. The 
poison with which she had taken her life was proved to have 
been sold to her daughter Rosie, many months before. She 
was buried unregretted and was soon forgotten by all, or 
remembered only with the deepest loathing. 



CHAPTER XLVIII. 


IN WHICH MR. SAGAMORE SCORES A VICTORY, AND EXPERI- 
ENCES A DEFEAT. 

The Republican Campaign inaugurated at Chicago with 
a tremendous mass meeting, was carried on with a vigor, 
and an enthusiasm, that left nothing to be desired. Mr. 
Sagamore toured the State, speaking everywhere, and every- 
where he met with that uproarious acclaim, that fervid 
adulation, so dear to the heart of the ambitious politician. 
Not Sagamore alone, but all the big leaders of the party 
were active. The organization was determined to recover 
the State to the Republican Party, and it put forth every 
energy to that end. 

Things did not look favorable in the beginning. 

Mr. Watterson’s action in declining the nomination 
occasioned the keenest disappointment not only to his friends 
in Clarenceburg, and in the State, but throughout the 
country. His nomination would have strengthened the ticket 
immensely, and his election by throwing the Illinois electoral 
vote to the Republican Party, nationally would have made 
McKinley’s election a practical certainty. As it was Saga- 
more was a bitter pill for Dillingham and the other leaders 
to swallow. With the State already in the hands of the 
enemy, and the silver movement seemingly growing in the 
popular favor, the closest accord was necessary to success. 
Mr. Watterson labored day and night to bring about a 
more cordial understanding between the candidate and 
leaders, and Sagamore by dint of certain concessions, and 
many glib promises, succeeded presently in establishing him- 
self in the good graces of the various State leaders. 

Mr. Watterson went to New York early in the cam- 
paign, and delivered several speeches in that city and in 
other Eastern cities, but he did not remain long away from 
his home State rightly believing that his presence within 


6oo 


THE WATTERSONS. 


that debatable territory, would be of more benefit to the 
national ticket than any amount of scattered efifort. 

Bryan’s strength and popularity at this time were tre- 
mendous. In the East indeed his strength was nil, but in 
the West and middle western States, and in the South, he 
seemingly was making a winning fight. He attracted vast 
concourses of people everywhere, and the enthusiasm with 
which he was greeted bespoke a sure and certain success. 
I'here can hardly be any doubt I think that if the election 
had followed the Chicago Convention within thirty days 
Mr. Bryan would have been overwhelmingly victorious. But 
the educational campaign inaugurated by the Republicans 
wrought in time the downfall of this brilliant and vigorous 
leader. 

On the night of election day Mr. Watterson sat in his 
office surrounded by his lieutenants, listening to the returns 
as they came in over the wire. Dillingham was there and 
Southgate, Brockington and a dozen other leaders. Farraday, 
as master of ceremonies, read aloud the reports of the vari- 
ous districts, and with really marvelous speed compared and 
compiled the accumulating figures. 

'^Cook County, Dick,” said the journalist looking up 
from his note book, ‘Vill top the city by several thousand.” 

^'Of course t’will,” said Dillingham, rubbing his fat 
hands together in great glee. '‘I’ve been working, I have. 
We’ll beat ’em by a hundred and fifty thousand, Scott.” 

"I hope so, Dick,” replied Mr. Watterson absently. 

He was thinking of Sadie, who was decidely unwell, 
though she had at this time not yet taken to her bed. He 
was a good deal worried, and, moreover, felt depressed and 
saddened by the thought of Mary and Andrew. 

“We’ll do it,” continued Dick, “eh. Sagamore?” 

“Things look very favorable, Dick,” said Sagamore, 
coming over and looking down at the numerous scraps of 
paper spread upon the table in front of Dillingham. He 
looked calm enough on the surface, but he was 
in fact, deeply agitated. He could hardly conceal his 
exultation. His hand trembled as he took up the latest dis- 
patch. “Things do look very favorable,” he repeated re- 
turning to his chair beside Scott’s desk. 


A VICTORY AND A DEFEAT. 


6oi 


'‘Favorable/’ echoed Dillingham disgusted. "Why 
you’re elected, man. And Scott’s Senator, eh, Scott?” 

"Time enough for that, Dick,” said Scott smiling a 
little. 

"We’ll make him Senator, won’t we Dick?” said South- 
gate importantly. 

"That’s what we will, Eddie,” cried Dick laughing up- 
roariously. 

The returns continued favorable beyond their most san- 
guine expectations. It was an hour past midnight when 
Farraday sank back with a sigh of satisfaction. 

"You’re elected. Sagamore,” he said. "The other side 
has conceded as much. The Courier^ I am informed, has 
an extra out now announcing your victory. All that remains 
is to ascertain the Republican majority. It is a landslide, 
embracing the entire country.” 

y'Hurray!” roared Dillingham, and bounding up he 
seized Southgate in his arms and went waltzing about the 
room bellowing like a mad man. 

"I want to be the first to congratulate you, John,” said 
Mr. Watterson rising and holding out his hand. 

The others crowded around tumultuously. Dillingham 
clapped him on the back with much warmth and vigor. Mr. 
Sagamore shook hands all round, standing upright, with a 
happy smile. The first step toward that goal to which he 
aspired was attained, and in the light of this victory, the 
rest seemed easy of accomplishment. 

"Gentlemen,” he said in a voice that trembled a little, 
"I thank you. My heart is too full to say more. I thank 
you.” 

"You will spend the remainder of the night )vith me, 
John?” said Mr. Watterson. 

"Yes.” 

But they did not make their escape thus easily. Farra- 
day always on the lookout for interesting matter for his 
paper, begged a word or two from each, expressive of their 
gratification over the victory/ and their faith in the renewed 
confidence of the people. This detained them for some 
time. Then Delaware came in to announce a large delega- 
tion below eagerly awaiting Mr. Sagamore’s appearance. 


6o2 


THE WATTERSONS. 


They went down, and Sagamore was kept busy shaking the 
hands of his friends and supporters. He made a short 
address, in which he gracefully expressed his thanks to them, 
for their confidence and support, of which he promised to 
prove himself worthy in the future. It was close upon morn- 
ing before they got away. Nevertheless, Mr. Watterson led 
his guest into his study. 

'T have a bottle of excellent wine, John,’’ he said, 
''which Sherman sent to me, and which we will drink to the 
victory. If you will excuse me a moment, I will unearth it.” 

He returned shortly, with the bottle and glasses. He 
was puffing and panting from the exertion, having seized 
the opportunity to run upstairs to inquire into Sadie’s wel- 
fare. The news was reassuring. 

"You’re getting fat, Scott,” said Sagamore jovially. 

"Yes, I have been too closely confined to my desk the 
last few months,” he replied. 

He had not as usual, toured the State that year. He 
had started out, to be sure, but finding that he and not 
Sagamore was attracting the lion’s share of attention, arid 
not wishing in any way to detract from the candidate, he 
had good naturedly retired, leaving the field clear to Saga- 
more, and from his office he had conducted the campaign 
with his wonted skill and sagacity. 

"Well, John,” said Mr. Watterson with his pleasant 
smile, "you are now or soon will be Governor of this great 
commonwealth. Are you not proud?” 

"I am, Scott.” 

"And contented?” 

"No, not contented,” said Sagamore energetically. 
"Not contented, Scott. I have advanced a step higher, that 
is all.” 

"Oh John, John,” said the big man eyeing him sadly, 
"That measureless ambition of yours. It will — nay, it has 
ruined you.” 

"In what way, Scott ?” asked Sagamore, holding up his 
glass the light. 

"It has taken possession of your entire being. It rules 
you ; it colors all your actions ; it has become your only 


A VICTORY AND A DEFEAT. 603 

motive in life. To gratify it you would go very far. You 
are in a word, ambition’s slave.” 

''Say it is so, Scott, why not? Why should I not be 
ruled by ambition? No man ever gained great heights, no 
man ever won great results, no man ever attained true 
greatness, who was not ruled by ambition.” 

"You are wrong, John. No man can attain true great- 
ness, unless he rules the ambition, which he permits 
himself to cherish.” 

"I say that the man who is not ambitious in some direc- 
tion is but little above the brute.” 

"All men have their ambitions, and it is well that we 
should be imbued with worthy aspirations, but we should 
not, I repeat, permit our ambition to rule us. We should 
not become its slave. I have warned you often, John to 
curb your bounding desires, but they seem to have grown 
upon you and — pardon me John — to have ruined that fine, 
noble manliness of yours of which you were ever so proud. 
I have long wished to speak to you of this, and I do not 
think I could find a better time than in this hour of victory. 
I no longer recognize in you that fiery youth of ten years 
ago, who would, and did dare all, even political death and 
oblivion, for the sake of honor and independence.” 

He spoke very slowly and gravely, and with an expres- 
sion of deep sorrow on his fine countenance. Sagamore 
slowly sipped his wine. 

"Am I so changed, Scott?” he asked. 

"Yes, John; you are not the same. You have become 
a very astute politician, cold, cautious, calculating. But 
think, my lad, the victory which you have gained this day, 
you have won mainly on the strength and popularity you 
gained in the days of your independence.” 

"Am I less honest, Scott, less open, less bold, less 
brainy ? Am I corrupt, dishonest ? A bribe-taker, a 
coward ?” 

"No, you are none of those. Your personal integrity, 
your courage, your intellectual force are undoubted.” 

"Then in what am I changed?” 

"In this John : that in the early days you were honest, 
bold, upright from innate manliness and zeal, for the sake 


6o4 


THE WATTERSONS. 


of right and justice; now you are all this for policy’s sake. 
You measure all you do or say by the possible good or harm 
it may do you in the future. You are no less bold, but more 
cautious; no less zealous, but more wary, no less honest, 
but more calculating; basing all your actions upon your 
political aspirations, and judging all men and things by their 
power to further or retard your ambition. Forgive my 
candor, John. I love you. You are my political son, and I 
at one time entertained great hope of you. I am proud of 
you now, but not as proud as I would have been if in acquir- 
ing your political training, you had not ruined that firey 
purity which you had in the starting out.” 

He rose in great agitation and took a turn through the 
room, breathing deeply. 

'‘The truth is, Scott, that I am now a practical politician, 
where I was formerly an innocent rustic running headlong 
against obstacles which my experience in politics has taught 
me can be gained in other and simpler ways. But I do not 
believe I have sacrificed a jot of the principle and manhood 
with which I started out.” 

"You are yourself unaware of it, John, because with 
your eyes persistently fixed upon the goal towards which you 
aspire, you lose sight of many things which I who know 
and love you, see quite clearly.” 

"Well, if I am the less a man because I am an abler 
politician, believe me Scott, it is because manhood and poli- 
tics will not mingle.” 

"Not when ambition is the third and more powerful 
ingredient, John.” 

"Who the devil would go into politics save for ambi- 
tion’s sake?” said Sagamore with sudden irritation. "No 
one but a fanatic or a fool. Should I have been content to 
remain in the lower House at Springfield forever, fighting 
corruption, dishonesty and wrong merely for the sake of 
gaining a popularity which I could never use?” 

"For the sake of the right, John ! You might have 
risen to the highest honors in the land my son, fighting for 
the right.” 

"Without ambition?” 


A VICTORY AND A DEFEAT. 605 

''No, ambition is essential to any rise, but should be 
kept subordinate to the right and gained through it.’’ 

"Scott, I am the same man I was in the beginning of 
my career. I have not gone down. My character is the 
same, my principles are the same. You simply judged me 
in those days to be better than I was. The work I did 
in the legislature was done partly in a spirit of fierce indig- 
nation against the corrupting influence at work there, but 
I’ll tell you candidly Scott that I never for one instant lost 
sight of my own interests, which I knew would be immensely 
advanced by the stand I took there.” 

Perhaps the strong wine he had drunk, or the triumph- 
ant sense of the victory so recently won made him for the 
moment forget the caution into which he had schooled him- 
self. He spoke clearly, smilingly, even flippantly, and sat 
regarding his friend’s widening eyes, with a species of en- 
joyment. 

"I am sorry you told me this, John,” said Mr. Watter- 
son slowly. 

"Bah, Scott, men are not what you think them, nor 
will they be what you would have them; until human nature 
is changed for the better. No man’s perfect. Even you, 
who are are the best man I know, are turning directly upon 
your own contention in yielding to your laudable ambition 
to enter the Senate.” 

"Not for ambition’s sake, John — not solely for ambi- 
tion’s sake. There is work there for me to do. I might 
have been Senator ten — fifteen years ago.” 

"That is true. Well, Scott, I am sorry if you are dis- 
appointed in me,” said Sagamore smiling, "but we must 
each work out his destiny in his own way. That is my 
theory. I shall try in my public duties to further public 
interests, but these interests will always be of secondary im- 
portance to me. And remember, Scott,” he added in a voice 
vibrating with emotion, "in my rise I earnestly hope to take 
one with me whose purity of character may renew in mine 
that nobility whose loss you so deeply deplore.” 

Mr. Watterson sat down in deep dismay. He would 
fain have spared his friend the sorrow, his daughter the 
pain of another meeting, but he could do nothing. The 


6o6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


man must put the question, the maid must answer. There 
was no other way. 

“Bye the bye, Scott,'' said Sagamore, placing his empty 
glass upon the table. “Why did you not go to the Senate 
twelve years ago? Why should you have made way for 
Traviston ?" 

“Senator Traviston was entitled to the honor by long 
and arduous services. I was not. Moreover, I did not con- 
sider myself qualified either by age or experience to fill so 
important a position." 

“An odd notion, that, upon my word," said Sagamore 
frowning. “Quite primitive." 

“Perhaps. Since that time I have added twelve years 
of work and study to my life, and believe now that I can 
fill a place in that august body." 

“You are too diffident, Scott. Your mind would 
furnish forth a dozen like poor me, yet I would not — nay, 
I shall not hesitate to oust Traviston if later on I care to 
join you in the Senate. You are altogether too modest. I 
have heard that in your lawyer days you rarely lost a case." 

“I was pretty successful," said Mr. Watterson, smiling 
with a charming air of complacency. 

“I have heard too, from men who ought to know, that 
your knowledge of law, even now is absolutely phe- 
nomenal." 

“Ha,ha, are you finding me out, John?" cried the big 
man throwing himself back in his chair with a great show 
of arrogance. “I have not entered court for twenty years, 
but with proper preparation, I could hold my own with any 
of you young fellows. Trust me John!" 

“But what good does it all do you ; that is what I am 
trying to get at ?" 

“Well, I keep in touch with all my brother lawyers, 
who are good enough to consult m^ on knotty points, and 
then I follow all the big legal battles, and in order to under- 
stand the fine points I've got to keep up my studies. It is 
a great pleasure to me." 

“All useless, Scott ; a waste of time. You should have 
gone into public life long ago." 

“I see nothing to regret in having remained at home. 


A VICTORY AND A DEFEAT. 607 

What is there in the political history of the past thirty years 
but tedious tariff tinkering, pension doctoring, and red tape 
quibblings, arising out of reconstruction problems? Neces- 
sary work, no doubt, but not, I imagine, very stimulating or 
attractive to men of mind/' 

''And what does the future promise to attract you?" 

"Much, John, much ! Cuba is knocking at our doors. 
She must be liberated, and liberated, moreover, without re- 
sorting to arms. War is a crime, a horrible crime. Then 
the great monopolies which overwhelm us must be curbed 
and regulated, and made to subserve the public good. And 
there is another thing to be done, John," continued Mr. 
Watterson, rising, and stretching forth his mighty arm. 
"We must give to our women the ballot, and enlist their 
earnest services in the many problems confronting this na- 
tion, by making them our equals before the State. You 
and I, John, will join hands on that issue." 

"What !" cried Sagamore. "Are you a convert to 
Woman's Suffrage?" 

"An enthusiastic recruit — yes. Are not you?" 

"Bah ! It is all nonsense." 

Mr. Watterson paused, looking down at his friend. He, 
of course, knew of Myrtle's endeavors to convert Mr. Saga- 
more, and he had thought with Myrtle that he had been won 
to the Cause. The ardent girl had often talked of him to 
her father; she had read passages from his letters, convey- 
ing warm expressions of faith and loyalty to it. And now it 
appeared that all this was pure pretense and hypocrisy ! The 
revelation of his friend's character, vouchsafed him within 
the hour, shocked and saddened him inexpressibly. 

"Let us go to bed, John," he said, sadly. "It is late, 
and we have a hard day’s work ahead of us. Come." 

It was indeed late, but the newly elected Governor, 
sitting beside a window which faced the east, waiting for 
the slowly dawning day, spent the remainder of the night 
in weaving pleasant dreams of future triumph, and of future 
bliss, when, united to the woman he loved, he would reign 
the equal of kings and emperors. There had been almost 
no correspondence between him and Myrtle since their last 
meeting. One or two letters he had written while in the 


6o8 


THE WATTERSONS 


thick of the political fight, but had received such brief, con- 
strained replies that he had thought well to cease writing. 
He felt that in the new light in which his proposal placed 
him, the girl’s constraint was wholly natural and charming. 
He augured well of it, and dwelt in anticipation on her 
sweet surrender when, victory-crowned, he came to her and 
asked her to share his glory. She was not like other women. 
She valued power and greatness above mere youth and 
beauty he was sure. She believed him to be a man of des- 
tiny — then why should she not desire to share that destiny 
with him? She looked up to him as the Moses who would 
lead the Cause of Woman out of the wilderness into the 
promised land of emancipation. Having the power to fur- 
ther the interests of that Cause, would not this fair enthu- 
siast see in him the one man above all other men? His 
position as Governor of a great State was a high one; 
would not she be eager to share it with him? He believed 
so. He could not but believe so. 

Nevertheless, his heart beat faster when he went down 
in the morning, for it is given to no man who truly loves 
a woman to approach that woman with a calmly beating 
heart, and Mr. Sagamore, in his way, loved Myrtle truly. 
His heart beat faster still when he beheld her unaltered, a 
pale, gentle, womanly creature, more beautiful in his eyes, 
sweeter, purer, than an angel of heaven, for in his thoughts, 
which she had filled for many months, she held no less a 
place than that. How she blushed in greeting him! Yet 
how gracefully and becomingly she offered her congratula- 
tions on his great victory ! She had been reading the papers, 
and the papers were full of it and him. He took one up. 
His own likeness stared out at him, his own and that of 
the girl’s father. The victory was a decisive one — a Repub- 
lican landslide, embracing the entire country. Illinois had 
done herself proud from a Republican point of view, giving 
to the national ticket over a hundred and fifty thousand 
majority, and to the local ticket but little less. Mr. Saga- 
more was very happy. He talked with more than usual ani- 
mation during breakfast. Aunt Sadie had not come down, 
and Myrtle presided at table. 

Mr. Sagamore did not go down town after breakfast. 


A VICTORY AND A DEFEAT. 


609 


Pleading a feeling of lassitude, he allowed Mr. Watterson 
to face the world alone. Myrtle retired into her study, 
thinking that he would, of course, accompany her father; 
but she was surprised a moment later to see him enter there. 
She blushed and then turned pale. This coming after his 
proposal to her father, could mean but one thing. It was 
bound to come, she knew, but she wished that he could have 
waited a few days longer. Not that she wanted time to con- 
sider, but, with a gentle woman’s dread of causing another 
deep and lasting pain, she would fain have postponed the 
dreaded hour. 

''Still at work, I see,” he said, smiling. 

"Yes,” she replied, in a constrained voice. "I have 
much writing to do.” 

"Nevertheless, Miss Myrtle,” he said, softly, "I must 
venture to interrupt it, because I wish to talk to you upon a 
certain matter.” 

"About — the — Cause?” she faltered. 

"No, not about the Cause,” he replied, smiling, "but 
about a matter of far greater moment to me, and, I hope, to 
you. May I speak. Miss Myrtle?” 

She bowed, with a semblance of calm composure that 
strongly belied her inward trepidation. 

"Miss Myrtle, it is nearly a year since I saw you for 
the first time. I was attracted to you from the first moment 
of our meeting. You were so different from other women 
that you awakened my interest and admiration, which feel- 
ing since then has ripened into deep regard. I spoke to 
your father some time ago, and asked his permission to 
address you. Has he told you of it?” 

"Yes,” replied Myrtle, in a low voice. 

"I then had nothing, was nobody, and could not in 
honor ask you to share my uncertain future with me. But 
now I have attained a position, and it is no small one. My 
future lies before me and is bright with promise. I ask you. 
Myrtle, to share my position and my future — to be my 
wife. I love you very dearly.” 

Myrtle did not answer him at once, but sat for the space 
of half a minute looking down. He waited with the great- 
est patience, srniling a little at her hesitation. He followed 


6io 


THE WATTERSONS. 


her glance, and beheld a well-shod little foot peeping out 
from beneath her ample gray gown. It was tapping the 
carpet with absolute vehemence. Her cheeks, too, were red 
and her bosom heaving with emotion'. 

^^Answer me. Myrtle,’’ he said, gently. ^^You are a 
woman of depth and understanding. You can comprehend 
the greatness of the position which I ask you to share with 
me, and are able to realize the power it will give me to fur- 
ther your — our — Cause. My aspirations, my hopes and aims 
for the future, you know. Be my wife. Myrtle, and help me 
to gain them, and when they are gained, you shall share 
them with me and lend dignity and grace to the honors, how- 
ever high. It is hard for a man to climb alone with none to 
assist him up the heights nor care when he has attained 
them. With you by my side. Myrtle, to encourage and 
guide and inspire me, I will conquer the world.” 

He spoke very earnestly, glowingly, regarding her the 
while with a deep, tender, admiring gaze. 

‘'Mr. Sagamore,” said Myrtle, quietly. “My ambitions 
do not tend towards high honors, nor do I aspire to assist 
any man to attain them. I thank you for the honor you 
have done me, but I must beg leave to decline.” 

His eyes expressed astonishment, dismay, chagrin, as he 
stood regarding her for a moment after this. The answer 
was so different from the one he had expected, that he could 
not for a moment believe his ears nor credit his under- 
standing. 

“Do you mean that you refuse to marry me. Myrtle?” 
he said, confusedly. 

“I am very sorry, Mr. Sagamore,” replied Myrtle, de- 
murely. “I know that it betrays an absence of appreciation 
on my part to refuse an honor so great, but we cannot help 
our failings, and mine, I confess it, is a deplorable tendency 
to consider myself the equal of any man, however high his 
position or promising his future; and this ridiculous pre- 
sumption will neither admit of my being raised up nor of 
spending my life in assisting another to attain honors in 
order that I might lend dignity and grace to him and them.” 

He was very quick, and he saw in one moment the 
mistake he had made in appealing to her intellect instead of 


A VICTORY AND A DEFEAT. 


6ll 


her heart, in a matter so nearly affecting her woman’s 
nature. He clearly saw his error and he hastened to redeem 
himself. 

^'Myrtle, you have misunderstood me,” he said, eagerly. 
“I love you very dearly, and it shall be my earnest endeavor 
to make your life a happy one. In speaking of my position 
and future I spoke of what would be yours also, and if I 
dwelt upon the honors you would gain by marrying me, it 
was because I felt that a man of my years must call in all 
possible auxiliaries to aid him in winning a woman at once 
young and beautiful. Personally I have, I am aware, little 
to recommend me. I am a man of middle age, without for- 
tune, and far from handsome. You are young, and in my 
eyes the most beautiful of women. You have besides won 
fame in a field of intellectual endeavor. Is it any wonder that 
in considering all this I should, in pleading my cause, call 
to my aid every possible advantage I possess or may possess ? 
You are more than my equal. Myrtle — more than the equal 
of any man. You are an angel of light and leading, pos- 
sessed of a deep womanly sympathy that I admired long 
before I knew you personally. Do not turn away from me. 
Myrtle. I did wrong, I see it now, in basing my plea upon 
the honors I might give you or the assistance I might render 
you in your Cause. I should have stood before you solely 
upon my manhood and pleaded my cause as from man to 
woman. Listen to me. Myrtle. I love you with all my heart. 
Believe me, I do. If you will become my wife, I will devote 
my life to making you happy. Your happiness shall be my 
unceasing care ; your Cause shall be mine in very truth, and 
we will labor in it together — or rather, I will labor in it 
alone, relieving you of all care, all anxiety, for it shall be my 
earnest purpose to make your life a bed of roses, and you 
the queen and glory of my life.” 

He pleaded his cause well, so well that Myrtle’s eyes 
were swimming in tears ere he had concluded. He stood 
mutely before her now, his powerful face expressing the 
greatest emotion. He understood the girl better now, and 
he cursed himself for the confidence he had displayed in 
approaching her, and the stupidity he had been guilty of 
throughout, in judging her to be vain, and weak, and shallow 


6i2 


THE WATTERSONS. 


enough to be captivated by the things which he could flash 
before her eyes. In his desire to redeem himself, he had 
shown an eager sincerity that moved Myrtle to the soul. In 
view of the colossal egotism which he had at first displayed, 
she had been able to listen to his proposal with composure, 
even to answer it in a spirit of mockery, but when she saw 
how deeply sincere and earnest he was at bottom, she felt 
wretched. 

There was much in what he said that would have dis- 
pleased her, had she been disposed to critically examine his 
words and meaning. She did not want her life to be made 
a bed of roses. She did not want to be relieved of all 
anxiety, all care. It was this very thing in him which, had 
she been wholly free and favorably inclined to his suit, would 
have aroused all the antagonism of her nature. First, he 
had looked down at her as one whom he would raise up 
to share his glory and his greatness, then going to the other 
extreme, he now looked up as to an angel for whose at- 
tendance he pleaded, promising in requital to make her 
life one of grandeur and comfort and innocuous ease. This 
young woman did not propose to sink her individuality 
into that of her husband, save on terms of absolute equality. 

But nothing of this occurred to Myrtle at this time. 
She was too deeply moved to think of aught but the pain 
she was about to cause this strong man. She rose in 
deepest agitation and placing one hand upon his arm, she 
gazed into his eyes with strong emotion. 

''Mr. Sagamore,'’ she said, in a trembling voice, "I am 
deeply, deeply grateful to you. Believe me, I am. But — but 
my answer must be the same." 

"Must it. Myrtle?" he said, blankly. "Why? Why? 
Have I ofifended you past redemption ?" 

"No, no, Mr. Sagamore !" cried Myrtle, eagerly. "You 
have honored me above all women." 

"Then why must your answer be the same?" he asked. 

"Because I do not love you, Mr. Sagamore." 

"I did not expect you would — now." 

"I never could, Mr. Sagamore, because — because my 
love is not mine to give," she replied, in a very low voice. 
"Oh!" 


A VICTORY AND A DEFEAT. 6l^ 

He stood looking at her for a moment, as if puzzling 
over her words. 

She regarded him with gentle, beseeching eyes. Her 
quivering lips and trembling chin, her bosom heaving 
stormily, betrayed her deep emotion. 

“Do you mean that yoii love another man? — that you 
are going to marry another man?’’ gasped the man. 

“I do love another man, and I do hope to marry him 
some day,” replied Myrtle. 

He said “Oh !” again very softly, passing his hand over 
his broad brow. There was something so touching, so inex- 
pressibly sad in the way he uttered the little monosyllable, 
that Myrtle was moved to the very center of her being. 
She sank upon her knees, and bowing her head upon the 
desk she wept aloud. 

He stood looking down at her for one moment, then 
without a word turned and walked from the room and from 
the house. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


RECONCILIATION. 

The uproar occasioned by the Marblemore disruption, 
as may be imagined, was' very great. All sorts of wild 
rumors were afloat, but nothing definite was known, save 
that the Reverend Mortimer Ringrose had been driven from 
the Marblemore mansion and later horsewhipped within an 
inch of his life, by the infuriated banker, who was referred 
to in the reports as the “injured husband,’' thus at once 
branding the criminal and the crime. The minister now, 
it was said, was lying at death’s door within the parsonage 
attended only by his wife, while Mrs. Marblemore remained 
incarcerated in the mansion, closely guarded by her husband. 
Some color was given to this last by the absolute seclusion 
of the banker and his wife. Mr. Marblemore would see 
no one, and Mrs. Marblemore likewise denied herself to all 
callers. 

Public opinion in the city was divided on the question 
of Mrs. Marblemore’s guilt. She had many enemies among 
the more aristocratically inclined, but also hosts of friends, 
who stoutly defended the slandered lady against the poison- 
ous attacks of those whom by her past social enormities 
she had grievously offended. Battles of extraordinary viru- 
lence raged. The first meeting held by the Clarenceburg 
Women’s League, following upon the scandal, ended in an 
uproar which bade fair to wipe that august body from ex- 
istence. 

To begin with. Aunt Sidie was absent and the imme- 
diate necessity of choosing a temporary chairman, promptly 
revived all warring factions, no two of which could agree 
upon any particular member. The faction led by Mrs. Dela- 
ware nominated Mrs. Hammersmith, whereupon all oppos- 
ing parties united and harmoniously wrought that lady’s 
defeat. Mrs. Bull put forward by her friends was promptly 
bowled over by the Traviston faction, uniting with the 


RECONCILIATION. 


615 

Delaware forces. And so it went until Mrs. Delaware, in 
despair, called upon little Mrs. Ferguson. The grocer's 
wife, being a meek and unassuming little woman, and more- 
over the only member of that body without office, was ac- 
claimed on all sides ; and peace reigned once more. Only for 
a moment, however. 

Mrs. Ferguson had no sooner called the meeting to 
order, when Mrs. Delaware was upon her feet demanding 
recognition, obtaining which, she at once burst into a tirade 
of abuse of Mrs. Marblemore, whom sTie venomously char- 
acterized as grossly immoral, an unfaithful wife, and per- 
jured woman, whose disgrace called for prompt action on 
the part of the League, if that body would escape the cal- 
umny properly attending the recognized associates of such 
a fallen creature. 

'T move,” continued Mrs. Delaware, coldly ignoring 
the growing demonstration of disapproval on the part of 
the younger members, ''that a resolution be unanimously 
adopted, denouncing this woman, and that she forthwith 
be expelled from the League.” 

"Second the motion,” said Mrs. Hammersmith, 
promptly. 

Mrs. Thompson, too, nodded, and half a dozen other 
members signified their assent by applauding, but the others 
broke out into open rebellion. Cries of "Never! Never!” 
mingled with incoherent shrieks of horrified protest. 

"Oh, it's a shame!” cried little Mrs. Sawyer, bravely 
facing the autocratic secretary, with cheeks all flushed and 
eyes flashing with excitement. "How can you be so heart- 
less? It's mean! It's contemptible! You have no right to 
speak so of Mrs. Marblemore. If Aunt Sadie were here 
you wouldn't dare. I don't care. I won't be quiet. I'm 
not out of order. I say it's a shame. Mrs. Marblemore's 
good, and I love her; we all love her.” 

"We do! We do!” cried the others, crowding around 
the intrepid little woman. 

"My dear — ” began Mrs. Hammersmith, mildly. 

"I’m not your dear,” interrupted Mrs. Sawyer, sharply. 
"I don’t want you to speak to me at all.” 


6i6 


THE WATTERSONS. 


''Mrs. Sawyer is out of order/' said Mrs. Delaware, 

icily. 

"I'm not; I resign right here and now. I don’t want 
to belong to such a heartless, mean, contemptible club. You 
can keep your old League, so there !" 

"Me too," shrieked Mrs. Primrose. "I resign!" 

"And 1 1 and I ! and I !" a score of voices swelled the 
chorus. 

Mrs. Delaware arose in great alarm. 

"Ladies I Ladies, be calm 1" she cried. 

"Then withdraw your resolution," cried Mrs. Sawyer. 

"Let us discuss — " 

"Withdraw the resolution !" shrieked the little woman, 
hysterically. "Do you withdraw?" — 

"I do." 

Victory won, Mrs. Sawyer promptly fainted. Her con- 
federates gathered around her sympathetically. There was 
no business possible after that, and the meeting presently 
adjourned. It may be said in passing that from that time on 
Mrs. Delaware's authority within the League was nil. The 
rules laid down by her, the regulations so long in force, 
held good at future meetings, but the slightest demonstration 
of authority on the part of the Secretary met with the most 
decided and crushing opposition. And she dared not send 
in her resignation, as in earlier days, lest it be accepted. 

The Reverend Mortimer Ringrose in the meantime, 
as a result of the terrible punishment he had received, re- 
mained in strict seclusion, shunned and abhorred by all. At 
the end of some four weeks he took himself and his family 
to Chicago, as upon another occasion. From thence he 
forestalled any action that might have been taken against 
him by the church council at Clarenceburg, by sending in 
his resignation on the ground of finding it impossible to 
longer endure the malicious gossiping and persecution of 
a certain coterie in the church. His encounter with the great 
banker, though it was a matter of common knowledge, was 
never authoritatively published, owing to that unaccountable 
tenderness which the press feels for men of wealth and im- 
portance. -Rumor did not hurt His Reverence, for rumor 
could be denied with a proper show of indignation, with 


/ 


RECONCILIATION. 


617 

rolling eyes and meekly folded hands. Mr. Ringrose, in a 
word, posed as a martyr again. In view of his oft recurring 
difficulties, he wAs pretty thoroughly roasted by both clergy 
and laity, but he soon received a call, which, though it came 
from a very small, country parish in the far West, he made 
haste to accept. 

All this time Aunt Sadie lay severely ill. The news of 
her sudden prostration spread through the town like wild- 
fire, creating consternation everywhere. Then was seen 
the regard in which this good lady was universally held. 
The townspeople flocked to the old grey house in dozens, in 
scores, in hundreds it seemed to poor harrassed Franklin, 
eagerly begging news of her, and asking to be permitted 
to see her. Half the women of the town volunteered their 
services in nursing the sick lady. They stood about in num- 
bers, recounting the benefits which Aunt Sadie had show- 
ered upon them. This one she had nursed in sickness, that 
one carried safely through confinement, the child of a third 
had been saved by her unceasing care and devotion, the 
husband of a fourth had secured steady employment through 
her efforts, the son of a fifth had been turned from evil ways 
by a sensible talk from Aunt Sadie. And so on. There 
were few who had not in some way benefitted at her hands. 
The attending physicians were overwhelmed with questions 
as to the sick lady’s condition, and in the end they issued bul- 
letins announcing her progress from hour to hour. 

The autumn gave way to winter, which in turn was 
succeeded by spring, and still to Mr'. .Watterson and to 
Myrtle, lovingly attending upon the sick lady, it seemed as 
if the turning point never would come; but come it did at 
last. Mr. Watterson rarely left his home during this time. 
Mr. Sagamore was duly inaugurated Governor of Illinois, 
and began his administration under the most favorable 
auspices. His own election to the United States Senate 
took place during this period of anxiety; but he paid little 
attention to it all. Dillingham had charge of the organiza- 
tion now, and to him was given the highly agreeable task 
of dividing up the patronage among the faithful. It was not 
until his sister was pronounced out of all danger by the 
attending physicians, that the big man once more began to 


6i8 


THE WATTERSONS. 


take an active interest in outside affairs, and then he awoke 
to the fact that Dillingham and Governor Sagamore were 
battling fiercely over various matters pertaining to local 
patronage. 

The news of Aunt Sadie’s improvement created univer- 
sal joy. As soon as she was strong enough to receive them, 
visitors were admitted to the sick chamber, and so Aunt 
Sadie was enabled to see and inquire into the welfare of all 
her friends, long before she was able to go out among them. 
Spring was well advanced when Aunt Sadie, to Franklin’s 
great joy, took her accustomed place in the dining-room, 
and spring was merging into summer ere she spoke of visit- 
ing her friends as usual. Her first visit then was to Mary. 
Winfield had apprised her of all that had transpired during 
her long illness. She had learned of Mary’s seclusion, of 
Andrew’s retirement from business. Things looked very 
bad, but there was much hope in the fact that they had not 
separated. Something was amiss, certainly, but there had 
been no open rupture. No one knew anything of a certainty. 
Aunt Sadie firmly believed that it was all a misunderstanding 
which could be cleared up. She was ardently hopeful of 
effecting a reconciliation between the estranged pair, and 
this hope contributed largely to aid her recovery. 

‘T shall go to her, Winfield,” she said, one morning. 
'Tf she is innocent, which I firmly believe, she needs me. 
If by any possibility she should not be wholly guiltless, she 
needs me more. Do not forbid me, brother. My heart is 
almost broken, thinking of Mary.” 

'‘You must wait until you are strong, Sadie,” urged her 
brother. "Violent agitation will be of great harm to you 
in your weakened condition.” 

Aunt Sadie very sensibly agreed to this, and remained 
at home until unable longer to endure the anxious thoughts 
that beset her mind, she started out one morning, determined 
to resolve her doubts for good and all. It was early in 
June, and the sky was beautifully blue and clear; the trees 
newly clothed in green, rustled a welcome to the stately 
lady. Flowers were blooming everywhere, and the pure, 
cool air of the prairies, sweeping in gentle waves around 
her, filled Aunt Sadie with intoxicating joy. How beautiful 


RECONCILIATION. 619 

Nature was ! How sweet and charming the sunshine and 
the flowers ! Aunt Sadie looked around her with brightly 
beaming glances, at the familiar trees and smooth, green 
lawns, and beautiful mansions, all harboring friends, her 
dear, good, kind friends. She met many people, and was 
often stopped by the way and congratulated upon her 
recovery. She was still thin and pale, and around her eyes 
was a dark, moist coloring, such as you see sometimes in 
the faces of delicate children. Her form was not as robust 
as of yore ; her step was not as buoyant. Two patches of 
grey had appeared in her hair, just above the temples, which, 
however, added to her matronly beauty, giving to the face, 
already thin from suffering, that touching look of patient 
endurance which is inevitably associated in our minds with 
maternity. Every one smiled gladly at sight of Aunt Sadie, 
and paused to speak a word of sympathy and pleasure. 

'T am calling on Mary,’’ she said, brightly, whenever 
questioned. 'T have not seen her for ever so long.” 

John opened the door to her, and very wide John’s eyes 
became at sight of Aunt Sadie. James came forward, and 
George and Henry, all eager to welcome her to that house 
of mourning. 

''Where is Mary — Mrs. Marblemore?” asked Aunt 
Sadie. ' 

"Upstairs in her room.” 

Aunt Sadie slowly mounted the steps, and without 
pause, went to the familiar chamber, where she came upon 
Mary, who doubtless had seen her from the window, stand- 
ing in the middle of the room with her hands pressing upon 
her heart. She remained motionless, standing there, looking 
at her friend. Aunt Sadie held out her arms to her with 
that sweet smile that belonged only to her. 

"Mary,” she said, and Mary crying out, came rushing 
into her arms like a child, and buried her face on Aunt 
Sadie’s bosom. The cry went to Aunt Sadie’s heart, it was 
so womanly in its depth of feeling; it could only have come 
from a heart purified and ennobled by suffering. 

"You are innocent, my Mary !” cried Aunt Sadie, in 
a rapture of joy. "Oh, I knew it ! I always said so ! I was 
sure of it ! I told Winfield so ! Oh my sweet, sweet Mary !” 


620 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Mary drew Aunt Sadie into a chair, and kneeling down 
beside her as to a mother, she poured out all her confession, 
told the extent of her guilt, even to the desperate purpose 
of deserting her husband, told how she had resisted that 
mad desire, how she had in the very hour of decision, con- 
quered it. How she had come to loath the man, her tempter, 
and concluded with an account of the happenings of that 
awful day. 

am innocent. Auntie,” she said, earnestly. ‘‘I did 
think of him, but I never, never loved him — was not even 
infatuated with him, I am sure. I simply did not know 
myself until in the very hour when I hovered between right 
and wrong, the truth flashed upon me, and I knew that I 
loved my husband, and that this man was really abhorrent to 
me; his touch had filled me with loathing even when the 
fascination that he exercised over me was the strongest. 
And when he came to me that day I told him how I despised 
and hated him, and — and he caught me in his arms and I 
was helpless, and in that moment you came in with Andrew.” 

Aunt Sadie was very thoughtful throughout this narra- 
tive, but she did not shrink from Mary, as Mary half ex- 
pected her to do. No, she bent down and kissed the' poor, 
thin face from time to time, with all the tenderness she felt 
for her suffering friend. 

''You are much changed, my love,” she said, looking 
into Mary’s hollow eyes, and regarding her wan cheeks with 

"And you. Auntie,” said Mary. "You have been ill 
because of me. Your hair has turned gray, though I have 
never seen anything so becoming.” 

"Never mind me, my dear. I am very, very happy. 
Tell me, Mary, does Andrew know of this?” 

"No, Sadie ; he believes me guilty. I am guilty, I know, 
but not guilty of what he thinks me. Oh, I have been so 
weak all my life ! Auntie, you love me, I know, but after 
what I have told you can you still respect me?” 

"Surely, Mary. You have done no wrong — no actual 
wrong. You fell into error when you allowed your thoughts 
to dwell on this man. You allowed your imagination to 
carry you away for a while, but at the last moment you 


RECONCILIATION. 


021 


showed yourself a true, sweet woman, and you are worthy 
of all esteem. Indeed, indeed you are.” 

''Oh, I thank you, Sadie.” 

"Where is Andrew, my love?” 

"He is in his shop. He is very cold to me. I do not 
venture into his presence. He does not speak to me, nor 
even see me, sometimes for weeks. He rarely leaves his 
shop. Sometimes he seems to remember himself, and he 
comes to me and tells me to make ready for certain changes 
in our mode of life, which he contemplated in the beginning, 
then he returns to his shop and forgets all about it. Oh, 
I have been so wretched! If you had died. Auntie, I would 
surely have killed myself. But I knew, — I hoped, I mean, 
that you would come to me when you got well. What is it. 
Auntie?” she added, in some anxiety, seeing Aunt Sadie’s 
thoughtful face. 

"I have been thinking, my child, whether it will be best 
for you to confess all to Andrew, or withhold from him the 
knowledge of your momentary aberration of mind.” 

"Oh, Sadie, I could never let him remain ignorant if he 
took me back. I would tell him all.” 

"My child, you would be foolish. Half the ills of the 
world are due to injudicious candor. You have done no 
actual wrong, then why poison his mind with the doubts and 
qualms that beset yours? Why tell him the trial out of 
which you came so nobly? He would be sure to overlook 
your triumphant victory, and judge you by that which went 
before. Men are good creatures, my love, but not over 
wise, that is why we women were placed here, to w^tch 
over them, poor dears, and guide their footsteps from child- 
hood to old age. Think what the world would come to, 
Mary, if all wives would feel themselves in duty bound to 
confess their innermost thoughts to their husbands. A 
howling wilderness, my dear, I assure you.” 

Aunt Sadie shook her head very sagaciously here, and 
smiling, continued : 

"They will come, these^ wicked thoughts, and we should 
constantly be on our guard to combat them. We should 
cultivate good thoughts, Mary, beautiful, loving thoughts, 
for thoughts, my love, are the quintessence of Nature’s living 


622 


THE WATTERSONS. 


forces. They influence for good or ill, according to their 
nature, not only those who think them, but all the world. 
You can look into your husband’s eyes and say that you are 
innocent, can not you, Mary?” 

''Yes, Sadie, a thousand, thousand times.” 

"Then, my dear, let what is past be buried forever in 
our hearts. Let us go to Andrew, Mary,” said Aunt Sadie, 
rising and taking Mary’s hand in hers. 

Hand in hand they went through the hall and up the 
steps to the little chamber in which Andrew conducted his 
experiments. 

"Wait here for me, Mary,” said Aunt Sadie, gently, 
pausing at the door. 

"Oh, Sadie, will he — will he take me back, do you 
think?” said Mary, who was very pale. 

"My love, he shall be on his knees to you within the 
hour,” said Aunt Sadie, stoutly. "Am I not here ?” 

She went into the room and saw the banker sitting on 
a bench, in the midst of a hundred contrivances. His back 
was turned to the door, and he was bending low over a bit 
of mechanism, so deeply absorbed in it that he did not hear 
Aunt Sadie’s approach nor mark her presence until she 
placed her hand upon his shoulder. He looked up slowly, 
then sprang to his feet with an exclamation of joy. Aunt 
Sadie was startled by the change in him, he looked so thin 
and pale and shrunken, that her heart melted in her bosom 
with compassion. 

"My dear, dear Sadie,” he said, in a husky voice. 

"You are not well, Andrew,” said Aunt Sadie, sitting 
down beside him. "You look worn.” 

"I am very well,” he replied, wearily. "It does not 
matter. Why did you come, Sadie?” 

"I have come to right a great wrong,” said Aunt Sadie, 
gravely. 

He stared at her without speaking, and with his stained 
and blackened fingers smoothed his neglected beard. 

"Appearances are sometimes deceptive, Andrew,” 
continued Aunt Sadie, "and may lead us into gross error.” 

Still he stared at her without speaking, pursing his lips 
gently, as one in doubt. 


RECONCILIATION. 


623 


^^Andrew, Mary is innocent !” 

''Innocent he cried, starting up. 

"Yes, innocent. Listen Andrew — ” 

"Did we not see her in the man’s arms?” 

"We did, Andrew, but — ” 

"If she is innocent why did she not say so? By her 
silence, if by nothing else, she has confessed her guilt.” 

"You are hard, Andrew, and cruelly unjust. We saw 
her in the man’s arms, but she was held against her will. 
As for her silence, remember her woman’s pride. You 
judged her without a hearing, and you know that if she had 
spoken at that time, you would not have believed her.” 

"I would not.” 

"And now you believe her guilty because she did not 
speak and declare her innocence ! Oh, Andrew, you do not 
deserve Mary. She is far, far too good for you. She is 
true to you and faithful to her marriage vows. She always 
has been true and faithful. The wrong she did you was 
in concealing from you, her husband, this wicked man’s 
pursuit. She knew of it, of course. She read his wicked 
designs in his eyes. She should have told you, but she did 
not, wishing to shield him because of his sacred calling.” 

"Stay, Sadie !” cried Mr. Marblemore. "She did try 
repeatedly to influence me against him, but I thought — I 
have since thought that was all a part of the game to de- 
ceive me.” 

"For shame, Andrew ! It is very wrong for us to put 
the worst possible construction on things in that way. Mary 
sought to evade him in every way, but he was persistent. 
On that day he came to her, Andrew, almost mad with evil 
passion, and asked Mary to go away with him. She repulsed 
him with scorn, and as she stood weeping for very shame, 
he sprang upon her and caught her in his arms, and in that 
moment we came in upon them.” 

"Is this thing possible ?” stammered the banker, staring 
around the room. 

"It is true, Andrew. And you, without giving her a 
hearing, judged her guilty. Oh, Andrew, you have much 
to answer for. Absorbed in your business day by day 
through all the years of your married life, you never thought 


624 


THE WATTERSONS. 


of the loneliness of the young and beautiful woman, your 
wife, living here in this great mansion, a prey to brooding 
thoughts. It would have served you right if she had al- 
lowed her mind to dwell upon forbidden things — if she had 
thought of this man, who, entering her life unbidden, would, 
in a woman less strong and pure and faithful, have awakened 
thoughts and stirred dormant passions that might have led 
to a terrible ending. Andrew, you should go on your knees 
to Mary and beg forgiveness for the great wrong you have 
done her.'’ 

'‘Where is she, Sadie? he cried. "Where is Mary?” 

The door opened and Mary came rushing into his arms, 
laughing and crying like a mad creature. 

"Mary !” he said, taking her face in his hands and look- 
ing deep into her eyes. "Tell me truly, Mary, are you 
innocent ?” 

"I am, Andrew !” cried Mary. "I am ! Could I look 
into your dear eyes like this if I were guilty? Oh husband, 
I have been cold to you, but not unfaithful. I have been 
unloving for years, but I have been true.” 

"Then what have I done?” he cried out, in deepest 
anguish. "Mary, what shall I do to gain your forgiveness ?” 

"Love me, Andrew ! Love me, and let me love you.” 

"But Mary—” 

"Hush, sweet husband, don’t let us speak of it again. 
Here is Aunt Sadie, dear, good, beautiful Aunt Sadie. See 
Andrew, her hair is gray. She has been sick, grieving over 
us. Kiss her, Andrew. Put your arms around her neck — 
so. Now kiss her like this. Oh God, but I am happy !” 

"Dear Sadie,” said Mr. Marblemore, brokenly. "You 
have made us very happy.” 

"My experience has been, Andrew,” said Aunt Sadie, 
nodding sagely, "that most people’s happiness lies within 
reach of their hands, only they are too thoughtless or too 
proud to reach out and grasp it. Take Mary away for a 
while, Andrew. A change will benefit you both.” 

"I will, Sadie.” 

That day for the first time in eight months Mr. Marble- 
more went to the bank. Johnson almost fainted at sight of 
his chief. Davidson rose promptly from the great desk to 


RECONCILIATION. 


625 


make way for the master, and the banker sat down. For an 
hour, two hours he remained, turning over papers, reading 
letters and listening to Davidson’s reports, but through it 
all his air was abstracted, his manner listless. There had 
been losses of course, but the losses had been chiefly in the 
falling through of those schemes, which, at the time of the 
great man’s retirement, had been still in the air, or in the 
incipient stages of inVesture. As for the old investments, 
they rested in too solid a foundation to have come to any 
harm. 

'T have been content to let things drift along,” said 
Davidson, 'hn the hope of your return, .sir. The last and 
grandest scheme of all has fallen through. The big men, 
alarmed by your sudden withdrawal, refused to come in, 
and so it fell through with the others. It is unfortunate, 
very unfortunate indeed, sir — ” 

'Tt is well,” said Mr. Marblemore, smiling. ‘T am go- 
ing to retire, and at once. I could not if I would, get into 
the swim of things again, and, what is more to the purpose, 
I would not if I could. I am tired. We are going away, 
my wife and I. Do you stay here, Davidson. I shall make 
arrangements by which everything will be placed in your 
hands.” 

He went away and did not again return. Some few days 
later he left the city with his wife, and business knew him 
no more. 


CHAPTER L. 


^ AFTER TWO YEARS. 

Washington was full of bustling life and animation. 
Affairs of unusual importance had protracted the session 
of Congress far into June, and the city was thronged with 
visitors who came flocking from all parts of the country, 
eager to see the famous haunts of famous men of times 
past and present. The stately Capitol, always the center of 
attraction to the women, was crowded with the fairest and 
bravest, who strolled in twos and threes, or in larger groups, 
passing and repassing upon the wide walks and broad stair- 
ways leading on all sides to the great doors in and out of 
which they swarmed like bees. Some few men were there, 
though they looked sadly out of place amid the multi-colored 
finery of the women, brown clods in a wilderness of flowers, 
they pursued their way rapidly, as if conscious of their 
incongruity and anxious to escape this scene of gayety and 
fire. All but one young man, a tall, bronzed and bearded 
youth, who stood motionless upon the first landing of that 
staircase which faces Pennsylvania Avenue. He smiled as 
he gazed upon the bustling scene around him. He was 
rather grave of face, and distinguished enough in appearance 
to merit more than passing notice. He was quietly dressed 
and his attitude, as he leaned upon the broad, stone balus- 
trade, was gracefully negligent, denoting bodily strength 
and poise, and ease of mind and manner. 

''Why, hello, old man V said a voice at his elbow, start- 
ling him from his reverie. "Is it really you, Sherman, re- 
turned to God’s country?” 

"It is really I, Farraday,” replied the young man, 
shaking hands with the natty journalist, who on his way 
to the street had paused to greet his old friend. 

"I’m exceedingly glad to see you. But aren’t you a 
little ahead o"f your time? The Senator told me the other 
day that you were ’way in the interior of China.” 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 627 

''No ; I was going to China, but the war broke out, and 
I came home.’’ 

"Too late, my son,” declared Farraday, cheerfully. 

"How is that?” demanded Sherman. 

"It’s all oflf.” 

"What’s all oflf?” 

"The war.” 

"You don’t say so?” 

"Nothing to it. A question of weeks, I assure you.” 

"Do you mean to say there won’t be any fighting?” 
asked Sherman, with an air implying deep injury. "Why, 
the President called for volunteers only the other day.” 

"Politics, my son, politics.” 

"Well that remains to be seen,” replied Sherman, 
grimly. "I’m going to join my regiment anyhow and hope 
for the best.” 

"Which?” 

"Fifth Illinois. Got a second-lieutenancy in the militia. 
Had it before I left.” 

"Filled long ago. You’re too late, I tell you. The 
President called for two hundred thousand volunteers in 
all. About two million have already oflfered. Besides, I 
thought you were against war on principle ?” 

"I am.” 

"Well, then why—” 

"Oh, man, this is different,” replied Sherman, coloring. 
"Theories are all well enough in time of peace, but in time 
of war one has to face conditions. The country is calling.’' 

Farraday chuckled. 

"Nice kind of an idealist you are,” he cried, derisively. 
"But then. I’ll forgive you. Been around the world?” 

"Pretty well. Are you stationed here now? I con- 
gratulate you. Magnificent building, the Capitol.” 

"Oh, so, so,” replied Farraday, as carelessly as if he 
owned it. "Seen the Senator yet?” 

"No; I was waiting for him here.” 

"Why, the Senate’s not in session now. Only ten 
o’clock.” 

"What time does it convene?” 

"On the stroke of twelve. Senator Watterson is prob- 


628 


THE WATTERSONS. 


ably at his hotel at this hour, or with the President. They're 
as thick as thieves, your uncle and the President." 

''Where is he stopping?" 

"At the Arlington. Come along, Pll show you." 

The journalist linked his arm in that of his friend, and 
they went down into the broad, beautiful avenue together. 

"Pretty fair structure, you think?" resumed Farraday, 
with a wave of his hand towards the Capitol. "Nothing 
like it in effete Europe, eh?" 

Sherman grinned. "Ever been abroad ?" he asked. 

"No; this little old country's good enough for me. 
Why? Think by crossing the pond I'd get different no- 
tions ?" 

"Oh, no. The more you see of Europe, the prouder 
you are of America. Only you might learn to appreciate 
your country at its true value — intelligently, you know, 
not egotistically, as now." 

"Hum. Think so? Been kow-towing to kings and 
such?" 

"Not I. I'd see every king in Europe damned before 
I'd cross the street to shake hands with one of 'em — as a 
king." 

"Which I am free to remark, is rather a strong ex- 
pression, my SQn," murmured the journalist. 

"Oh, I'm disgusted. How any citizen of this country 
can consistently recognize the principle of king-rule, by al- 
lowing himself to. be "presented" to a king, passes my com- 
prehension. And yet you read of it every day. Of course, 
the puppies whose money gives them sufficient prominence 
to be noticed in the newspapers are not representative ; but 
as their doings are chronicled to the exclusion of all else, 
an erroneous impression prevails in this country that all 
Americans who go abroad are bent only on rendering hom- 
age to a fat-headed king. That's wrong. There are many 
hundreds of traveling Americans who cherish our national 
ideals too highly to violate the principle underlying this 
Republic in that way. You don't want to judge every man 
by the idiots you read about." 

"Oh, all right. My hands are up," grinned Farraday. 
"Sail right in. Don't mind me." 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 


629 


''Well, it is sickening and you can’t deny it,” growled 
the young man. "However, you can’t expect much from 
the individual American, when his Government actually 
stultifies itself by sending envoys and ambassadors extra- 
ordinary to royal coronations, when it absolutely should 
withdraw its regular popinjay upon such occasions to show 
in an unequivocal manner its disapproval of a kind of gov- 
ernment fit only for savages and fools.” 

"Oh, that’s a matter of policy, I guess, more than any- 
thing else.” 

"Policy be hanged ! Do they send a special representa- 
tive over here when we inaugurate a President? No, they 
don’t. No, sir. We’re either right or else we’re wrong 
in our national ideals ; if we’re right, we should refuse, as a 
nation and as individuals, to countenance any system of 
caste, or government founded upon birth-right. If we’re 
wrong, then, for heaven’s sake, let’s get out from under.” 

"Well, well, I see that you’ve returned with the bark 
on. We’ll let it go at that. By the bye, your good aunt 
was glad to get her boy back again, no doubt ?” 

"My dear Farraday, when I tell you that I landed in 
New York yesterday and came straight on here, you will 
understand — ” 

"Why, she’s here.” 

Sherman stared. 

"Your aunt is here,” repeated Farraday, smiling. "She’s 
been here these three months.” 

"What! Aunt Sadie here? In Washington? Why, 
I thought — she wrote me — ” 

"Just so. Couldn’t leave her friends, eh? Too timid 
to travel ? The fact is, she’s come to look after her brother. 
He’s a kind of precocious infant away from his sister’s 
apron strings. The little preacher’s here, too.” 

"Ah !” said Sherman, with sparkling eyes. "Myrtle 
here!” 

"Surest thing you know ! Get a move on. We might 
as well ride the rest of the way, eh ?” 

So they caught a car and soon were whizzing towards 
the heart of the beautiful capital city. Farraday talked of 


630 


THE WATTERSONS. 


public affairs, but especially of the part Senator Watterson 
played in them. 

^'He’s the coming man, Sherman,’’ he declared, with 
uncommon enthusiasm. ^‘He has proved himself a statesman 
of magnitude. His stand on the Cuban question has won 
him the confidence of the conservative element, though the 
turbulent frown upon him for his determined stand against 
the war. He has upheld the President’s hands throughout. 
He did his best to stem the torrent precipitated by the fire- 
brands in both Houses making for war. But war was in- 
evitable. The hotheads always gain the day in contests like 
these; but his course in this crisis will stand him in good 
stead in the future. Here we are. See you later. So long.” 

They parted, the journalist making off in one direction, 
while Sherman hastened into the hotel, where he presented 
his card and preferred his request. He was promptly con- 
veyed to his uncle’s apartments. The negro bade him wait 
in the ante-room a moment while he carried his card in to 
the ladies. He had waited scarce a moment, when he 
heard a little shriek — nay, two little shrieks, followed by a 
prodigious rustling of silken raiment, and the next moment 
Aunt Sadie stood before him. Aunt Sadie radiant in a mag- 
nificent gown of amber colored satin. She stood for a mo- 
ment like one transfixed, gazing at her Boy with large, round 
eyes of wonder and delight. Sherman caught a glimpse of 
another face and form behind the elder lady, a face all pale 
and agitated, and then the rich portieres came together 
and he was clasped in the arms of his loving aunt. 

^^My boy ! My sweet, precious, darling boy !” cried the 
delighted lady, hanging upon him in a transport of wonder 
and delight and happiness. ‘Ts it really you come back to 
us? Dear God, I am so happy. Let me look at you.” She 
held him off, and looked him over with a glance of pride 
beautiful to see. “Not changed,” she cried, embracing him 
once more; “not changed in the least little tiny bit. I’m 
overjoyed! I’m delighted! My gracious me! I never was 
so surprised and pleased in all my life! Never!” 

“Dear, good, sweet Aunt Sadie !” said Sherman, gazing 
tenderly and, reverently into her bright, kind eyes. 

She went into ecstasies over his bronzed and bearded 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 63 1 

face, and he, it seemed as if he never would again release the 
fond lady from his strong, encircling arms. 

''Yon look so much like poor, dear Richard, your father, 
looked, when he came to bid me good-bye,’’ said Aunt 
Sadie, weeping now for pure joy. 

"Your hair is gray. Auntie,” said Sherman, touching 
the locks of white above the temples with a look of admiring 
wonder. "And when I went away it was a beautiful brown. 
How does that come. Auntie?” 

"Thinking of my absent boy, perhaps,” cried Aunt 
Sadie, laughing. "But how did you come to return home 
so suddenly, darling?” she added, drawing him down beside 
her on the sofa. "Did you make up your mind to surprise 
us ?” 

"The war. Auntie. I came home at once when war was 
declared. But I’m too late, it seems,” said Sherman rue- 
fully. 

"I’m glad,” replied Aunt Sadie, devoutly. 

"Oh, are you, you wicked Auntie,” he cried, hugging 
her. ''My, my, but this is luxury!” looking around the 
gorgeous apartment. 

"Indeed, yes ; we’ve become quite fashionable, Winfield 
and I.” 

"And Myrtle? Where is Myrtle, Auntie? Did not 
I see her — ” » 

"To be sure, my dear !” cried Aunt Sadie, starting up. 
"Myrtle is here. Come in, darling. She is waiting for 
you.” 

She was standing very quietly at the other end of the 
room awaiting him; but retreated a step or two at his ap- 
pearance, retreated blushing with a timidity strangely sweet 
to Sherman. How beautiful she looked, as she stood half 
turned away from him with lovely eyes regarding him 
gravely, questioningly, appealingly. She still was fond of 
grey and wore now as she stood before him a loose, flowing 
gown of her favorite color, richly trimmed with lace. It 
was a tasteful gown, pretty in its sweeping swell, and yet 
quiet, almost nun-like in effect. 

Sherman advanced a step into the room and paused, 
smiling the old, boyish smile, which Myrtle loved so dearly. 


632 


THE WATTERSONS. 


He was wonderfully embrowned; he had broadened might- 
ily, and was bearded like the pard, but he stood before her 
regarding her with the same eager, boyish eyes, which she 
in memory worshipped. 

‘'Myrtle,'’ he said softly. 

That was all; but there was that in the way he pro- 
nounced the name that told of years of tender thought 
clustering about it. It thrilled Myrtle through and through. 
She came forward a step or two to meet his ardent approach. 
She gave him her hands, smiling a little, and he bent down 
and kissed them tenderly. For a long moment they stood 
with clasped hands gazing into each other's eyes. 

To Myrtle standing there quietly awaiting she knew not 
what, that moment seemed fraught with the essence of all 
tragedy. She had long looked forward to this meeting, and 
with quaking heart had wondered what was to be her fate. 
She had sent him from her an ardent, imaginative boy, he 
would return a grave, reflective man. His eyes would see 
things differently, his mind judge with the experience gained 
by years of thought and travel. Without doubt she would 
appear changed in his eyes. He would no longer love her 
as of old. Often and often in her solitude of waiting, the 
thought had come, chilling her heart with dread foreboding. 
She waited with dilating eyes, striving with all her feeble 
might to subdue the storm of emotion that bade fair to 
overwhelm her. 

“Myrtle!" The old, loved voice; the dear familiar 
tones ! Myrtle closed her eyes and waited breathlessly for 
the dream to vanish. “Dearest Myrtle," said Sherman, 
softly. “I've come back to you — come back to claim you, 
dear, for good." 

His voice was low and pleading, but the glance with 
which he regarded her was masterful to a degree. Myrtle 
shivered, deliciously blushing over cheek and brow as she 
felt herself drawn towards him gently indeed but irresistibly, 
until he fairly held her captive in his arms. 

“Speak to me. Myrtle," he pleaded. “Do you — am I — 
is everything to be as we planned long, long ago ?" 

One glance she gave him, a glance so fraught with 
tenderness and passion, that Sherman cried out in an ecstasy 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 


633 


of joy, and caught her to his heart. A silence followed, a 
long silence . broken now and then by an inarticulate mur- 
mur or a sigh or sob smothered in its birth. Aunt Sadie 
hiding behind the portieres listening with all her ears, 
nearly strangled with a kerchief stufifed into her mouth 
to check a shriek of delighted laughter, which momentarily 
threatened to break forth and overwhelm the lovers with 
confusion. 

''Speak to me. Myrtle,'' said Sherman, at last. "Have 
you thought of me at all in all these years?" 

"I thought of you always," she replied. "Oh, my 
dear, you stayed long. So long, Sherman ! I feared 
you had forgotten me. Am I indeed the same to you, 
Sherman ?" she asked, brushing back her hair, which he had 
sadly touseled; "do you love me as when you went away?" 

"More, my darling, a million times more !" 

"But look at me," she urged, entreatingly. "Am I 
not changed?" 

"You are many times more beautiful," he replied. 

"Dear Sherman, you know I never was beautiful," 
she said, earnestly. 

"No?" Sherman smiled very proudly down into her 
eyes. "I have seen the women of all the world, my love, 
and among them all there was not one to compare with my 
lovely Myrtle." 

The same old Sherman! Myrtle smiled very brightly 
into his eyes atid drew him into a chair kneeling down by 
his side. 

"Am I really the same ?" she asked again, with delight. 
"Is nothing changed ? Oh, I am so happy ! It was wicked 
to send you away, my own ; but I have suflfered, Sherman. 
I have been so lonely without you all these years. So 
lonely 1" 

"You had the Cause, Myrtle," said Sherman, gently. 

"Oh, the Cause !" she waved it away, impatiently. "I 
wanted you," she added, smiling adorably. 

"Do I come before the Cause now?" 

"You come before all the world, Sherman," replied 
Myrtle, gazing into his eyes with a gravity wholly sweet 
and charming. "You always* were the first in my heart. It 


634 


THE WATTERSONS. 


is my dearest pride to think of that now, and to remember 
my willingness to yield to you before you went away. I 
am older now and, it may be, wiser, I know where my true 
happiness lies. If you had taken me long ago, a child, I 
would not have been unhappy, for I loved you then as now ; 
but I would not have been as happy as I am now, because 
I would perhaps never have come to realize fully how much 
more to me you are than the Cause. You were wiser than 
I. You saved me from myself. I was weak, but I have 
come to realize my weakness. I know my mind thoroughly. 
If you will take me, Sherman — now — with all my imper- 
fections on my head, I shall be proud and happy to be- 
come your wife. I shall strive to make your life a happy 
one, and if constant devotion and a spirit made humble and 
strong by years of thought, will make for future happiness, 
be sure that we shall be happy together. I have thought 
much in these years, my love, and the sum and substance of 
all my meditation is this : that however high the aspirations 
of my mind, it is my heart that must govern my life if I 
would be truly happy, and my heart assures me that I will 
find true happiness only in becoming your wife.’’ 

She spoke this last with blushing cheeks, but with a 
high look of courage that moved him to the soul. 

''Your happiness, Sherman, shall be my deepest joy. 
I will seek to enter into your thoughts and will make your 
interests mine. We will become as one, my Sherman, in 
very truth, only you as my husband shall in all things be 
the head, for you have proved yourself the stronger, the 
wiser, and the braver. All of which does not mean that 
I shall give over my labors in the Cause, but they shall take 
second place always. My husband shall be first and fore- 
most in my heart and mind. My belief in the right is as 
strong as ever, though my views have become much modi- 
fied. I believe that woman should be given the suffrage, 
but only under certain wise restrictions. She should be 
forbidden by law to enter public life, for, though she is 
intellectually man’s equal, she is unfitted by nature for 
public duties. Man should be at the head of the family 
and of the State. With the ballot in our possession, we can 
correct existing abuses and discriminations against our sex. 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 


635 


and make politics purer and better, simply because men in 
power will have to consult our tastes and ideals in putting 
men forward for elective offices. But — but, oh, I didn’t 
mean to talk about that. Tell me about your travels, my 
Sherman. Tell me — tell me — am I really and truly the 
same?” 

He answered not in words ; but the silence that followed 
was fraught with wondrous things to the happy girl. 

The portieres parted at this moment, and Aunt Sadie 
came bursting in upon them in a ‘state of prodigious ex- 
citement. 

‘'Sh ! children,” she whispered, with her fingers pressed 
to her lips. ‘'Winfield’s coming up, and we must surprise 
him. Hide, darling ! Here, behind these portieres. Quick, 
my love, or he will see you !” 

Sherman entering into the fun, sprang behind the 
heavy curtains, and the next moment Senator Watterson 
came into the room. Sherman saw him from his hiding 
place and thought, with a sensation of pleasurable emotion, 
that never in all his lifetime had he seen so handsome, so 
stately, so majestic a man. 

“Well, Sadie,” said Mr. Watterson, beaming upon his 
sister, who sat blushing and smiling and patting her hair, 
in a state of excitement impossible to describe. “You look 
quite happy.” 

“Do I, indeed?” cried Aunt Sadie, trying to look 
gloomy but not succeeding. “Fm sure you are mistaken, 
Winfield. Perfectly sure of it !” 

“And Myrtle has been crying,” continued the Senator, 
searchingly. “And so have you. Come, that means a long 
letter from our boy. Perhaps he is even coming home?” 

“No, he isn’t, Winfield,” cried Aunt Sadie, in a perfect 
tremor of excitement. “He isn’t coming home. Really, 
he isn’t, brother; ask Myrtle.” 

And she burst into a laugh, and sat before him crowing 
and gurgling and beating her hands together in an ecstasy 
of delight. 

■ “He isn’t coming home, Winfield,” she shrieked. “He 
is home ! Come out, darling, or I shall die !” 

Sherman came from his hiding place and caught his 


636 


THE WATTERSONS. 


astonished uncle in his arms and hugged him soundly. Mr. 
Watterson gazed at him, and from him to Aunt Sadie and 
back again, as if he thought his good sister had suddenly 
developed surprising conjuring powers, by means of which 
she had called up her boy before his bewildered eyes. 

‘'It is our boy, Winfield,'’ cried Aunt Sadie. “Our boy 
come back to us. Don't you know him?" 

“Surely, surely," replied Mr. Watterson. “But I 
thought he was in China." 

“He is not in China, Winfield," said Aunt Sadie, very 
earnestly. “How can he be in China, brother, when he is 
here ?" 

The manifest impossibility of the thing evidently ap- 
pealed to the Senator, who smiled comprehendingly and 
pressed the young man in his arms. Sherman told him how 
he had suddenly cut short his trip and returned home. 

“I am very glad," said Mr. Watterson. “And were 
you kindly received, my lad?" he added, glancing slyly at 
Myrtle. 

“Yes, Uncle," replied Sherman, drawing his blushing 
sweetheart to his side. “Will you give her to me, sir ?" 

“With all my heart, SHerman." 

“Will you give Myrtle to me. Aunt Sadie?" 

“Give her to you !" cried Aunt Sadie, in great astonish- 
ment. “Why, to be sure. Of course ! I always meant for 
her to marry you. I always said so; ask Winfield." 

It was a happy reunion all around. Later when they 
were gathered at luncheon, which was served in their apart- 
ment, Aunt Sadie explained her surprising presence at 
Washington. 

“Winfield is such a child, my love," said she, gazing 
fondly across at her gigantic brother. “He must be looked 
after all the time. He becomes so deeply immersed in work 
that he neglects his walks and exercises, and you know he 
is not strong at all. And then he is so good-natured, that 
unless I am here to watch over him, he will go to dinners and 
banquets every day, and that wouldn't do at all, you know, 
when he is so full-blooded. I feared for his digestion, for 
he will neglect the simplest precautions," continued Aunt 
Sadie, severely. “I assure you, when I came here three 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 


637 


months ago his health was completely shattered. You have 
no idea, my dear, how feeble he looked ! A mere shadow 

Sherman had never seen his uncle looking so strong 
and ruddy as at that moment. The Senator bestowed a 
sly wink upon him, and catching Myrtle's merry smile across 
the table, he knew that these two had put their heads 
together and conspired between them to bring the guijeless 
lady to the Capitol. 

^^And the friends. Auntie?" hinted Sherman. 

'T know, I know, my love," said Aunt Sadie, patting 
her hair in a flurry. ''But my first duty is to my brother. 
They are all doing nicely, however." 

They talked of other things, of the doings of their 
friends in Washington, and of the many beautiful and in- 
teresting sights the capital city offered to visiting strangers. 
All of which they planned to show to Sherman. He should 
see his uncle sitting grandly in the midst of all the Senators, 
Myrtle promised him. He should see Congress in full 
session, and he should be presented to the President and 
the President’s amiable lady. 

"Pm going to the White House this evening, my dear," 
said Aunt Sadie. "Would you like to go along?" 

"We will all go together, Sadie, and pay our respects," 
interposed Senator Watterson. 

"You must know, Sherman," cried Myrtle, "that Aunt 
Sadie has quite a number of friends in this city whom she 
visits daily, and Mrs. President is one of them." 

"The dearest, sweetest woman, my love," murmured 
Aunt Sadie. "You have no idea !" 

"But where is Daniel, Sherman?" Myrtle asked. 

"Why, the fact is, I expected to stay here but a day or 
two, thinking you were at home, so I told him to hustle out 
to his parents until I was ready to start West. Seen the 
General lately. Uncle?" 

"We see him nearly every day." 

"Is he at all changed?" 

"Not in the least." 

"He’s a dear, good, sweet old man," cried Myrtle. 

"Well, I must go now, Sherman," Mr. Watterson said. 


638 


THE WATTERSONS. 


rising briskly. ''I will leave you to the ladies. This evening 
if agreeable to you, wedl call at the White House.” 

Aunt Sadie, having some friends to visit, went away 
presently, leaving Myrtle to entertain her lover, which she 
did by telling him all about his friends at home. 

Billy Boyle was mayor as of old. General Hamilton, 
still hale and hearty, lived like a king upon his estate,' which 
lay within twenty miles of Washington. Cousin Mary and 
her husband, the famous banker, were still abroad. Elmer 
was at home ; he lived with Clara and their little son in the 
great mansion erected by her father in the heyday of his 
wealth and greatness. Papa had severed all connection with 
the bank, which Elmer now conducted in a much smaller 
way than had been the case in the great banker’s time. The 
young man was not popular, though the feeling against him 
had worn away in a great measure. Clara was generally 
liked, though she was strangely indifferent, caring only for 
her little son, to whom she was passionately attached. 

''Poor little Rosie,” said Sherman, sadly, and Myrtle 
sorrowfully echoed the sigh. "Things are not always justly 
arranged in this world. Myrtle.” 

"Justice prevails in the end, Sherman,” Myrtle gravely 
replied. 

Governor Sagamore had never once visited them since 
his election. Dillingham came frequently; the same jolly 
Dick as of old. Once he had brought the wife and babies 
to Clarenceburg, where the family remained quite three 
weeks as Senator Watterson’s guests ; by which time the 
little ones had become so attached to Aunt Sadie that they 
refused to go with Dick, when finally he came to fetch 
them home. 

All the afternoon they sat side by side, talking of the 
past, or wandered, hand in hand, about the apartments, ex- 
amining the pretty paintings and odds and ends in the way 
of statuary and bric-a-brac with which Aunt Sadie, as was 
her custom, had filled every nook and corner of their tem- 
porary home. 

Along towards evening they went together to the Capi- 
tol and obtaining admittance to the Senate gallery, they sat 
for half an hour looking down into the chamber at the busy 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 639 

statesmen gathered there, among whom Senator Watterson, 
of Illinois, was not the least. 

Momentous events crowding upon each other during the 
two years past had kept the country in a constant state of 
turmoil and excitement. Cuba’s deplorable condition had 
imperatively demanded the nation’s intervention, and the 
arguments pro and con, in public and in private life, were 
a source of endless agitation. The press teemed with as- 
saults upon the President, and upon Senator Watterson, 
whose conservative attitude upon the all-absorbing question, 
coinciding with the stand taken by the nation’s head, awak- 
ened bitterness and rancor in the breasts of the firebrands. 
While outspoken in his sympathy for our distressed and 
harried neighbors, the Illinois Senator was unalterably op- 
posed to war. He believed that Cuba could be freed with- 
out resort to arms, and his speeches in the Senate upon the 
burning subject had called forth blame and praise in almost 
equal proportions. The war came in spite of all his efforts, 
and thus at once the Gordian knot was cut and Cuba freed. 
Though defeated in his endeavors. Senator Watterson’s 
stand had endeared him to the more conservative of his 
countrymen, and his subsequent patriotic course when once 
war was on, gained him the esteem of the most radical. He 
was hailed on all sides as a man of rare sagacity, a statesman 
of real ability. 

'Ts he not grand?” said Myrtle, clasping her hands in 
an ecstasy, as she gazed down at her father. ‘'He is our 
leader now, dear Sherman. He has openly endorsed 
Woman’s Suffrage, and has spoken for us in public. Oh, a 
number of times. All the world knows his sentiments. And 
he is listened to by earnest men and women everywhere — 
people who would pay no attention to poor me. It is strong 
men like Papa whom we must rely upon to carry our Cause 
to ultimate victory.” 

She pointed out the more notable statesmen in the as- 
sembly. Senator Hoar, the Massachusetts sage; Hanna, 
the newly elected Senator from Ohio; Senator Hale, of the 
New England group; Senator Pettus, of Alabama; hot- 
headed Pettigrew, the Dakota Senator; Senators Tillman 
and Morgan, the Southern leaders. Senator Lodge, too. 


640 


THE WATTERSONS. 


was there, Hoar’s colleague, and Fairbanks, of Indiana, ana 
battling Ingalls, of Kansas, and various others. 

''I hope Uncle Winfield will speak,” said Sherman. 

But his wish remained ungratified for that time at least. 
Senator Watterson sat mutely at his desk, or chatted with 
other Senators around him. There seemed to be little doing. 
An air of quiet informality pervaded the assembly. Ap- 
parently nothing short of an earthquake could enliven pro- 
ceedings here. A gentleman on the extreme right of the 
small half circle was talking away prosily. Pages darted 
briskly here and there. Senators were coming and going 
constantly passing in and out of the doors, which led on all 
sides into the mysterious interior; the presiding dignitary 
was holding a whispered conference with another gentleman. 

''Let’s carry him ofif, Sherman,” whispered Myrtle. 

They went down accordingly and sent in word of their 
presence, and before many minutes Senator Watterson came 
out to them. 

"Sherman is disappointed. Papa,” Myrtle said; "be- 
cause you didn’t rise and make a few remarks. I tell him 
he should have been here some months ago before war was 
declared.” 

"Ah ! there was battling then, my lad,” the Senator 
replied, chuckling. "Every day we had our little rumpus, 
which cleared the atmosphere and lent interest to the pro- 
ceedings. Just now matters are quiet. There is a tension, 
though it may not be particularly observable. We’re wait- 
ing.” 

"For what?” 

"Who knows? Sampson and Schley are still to be 
heard from, you know. Have you visited the House yet, 
Sherman? No? Supposing we go over there for a minute 
or two?” 

They made their way through the spacious corridor into 
the circular chamber beneath the towering dome, pausing 
long enough to examine the great paintings which adorned 
the walls. 

In Statuary Hall they remained for a time admiring the 
sculptured figures of great men dead and gone. There were 
many visitors in the great building going about in groups 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 


641 


under proper guidance. Sherman caught glimpses as they 
moved along of interior apartments stacked high with doc- 
uments. An army of governmental clerks were employed 
round about them; minor cogs in that mighty machine 
operated by the two governing branches of Congress and 
directed by the will of the people — the Government. 

The Hall of the House of Representatives was several 
times the size of the Senate Chamber; and of statesmen 
there were five times as many. Their desks were arranged 
in a vast half circle, facing the Speaker's lofty platform. 
Perhaps one-third of the desks were occupied. Men stood 
about in twos and threes, or sat in deep confabulation. 
There was plenty of life and movement here, but apparently 
the same individual indifference to collective proceedings 
as manifested by the higher body. The character of the 
assembly differed widely from that at the other end of the 
Capitol. The men were younger; carried themselves more 
freely. An occasional laugh bespoke a cordial good-fellow- 
ship. The hum of many murmuring voices arose in swell- 
ing volume. 

/They seem to have little to do," observed Sherman, 
looking down from a point of vantage. 

A gentleman just beneath him was speaking, but with- 
out force or eloquence or fire, such as he had imagined the 
rule in legislative proceedings. Some few members gathered 
around were listening attentively, but the majority of those 
present paid not the slightest attention to the man or his 
subject. 

'The work, my son, is all done in the committee rooms," 
said Senator Watterson. 'There at the present moment 
you may find the ablest and most valuable members at 
work. There is where the most momentous questions are 
decided — not upon the floor of the House, as you might 
suppose. Everything that is done is done by committee; 
every question that comes up is referred to committee. Our 
government, in fact, is nothing more than a government 
by committee. And a mighty good thing, my lad. These 
various committees are made up of the working^members, 
strong, able, resourceful, brainy men, who perhaps never 
are heard of outside of their committee rooms. They are 


642 


THE WATTERSONS. 


not orators ; they care nothing for debate ; they are workers. 
These are the men who regulate expenditure, make laws, 
inaugurate improvements — in a word, who carry on the 
government. Come along now. We are due at the White 
House in half an hour.'' , 

‘‘One moment. Uncle," cried Sherman. “Is not that 
Uncle Joe coming in — Cannon of Illinois?" 

“Yes; he's one of the workers — a genuine watch dog, 
old Uncle Joe. You've heard him speak at Clarenceburg ? 
To be sure ! The district he represents is right beside ours. 
See that young fellow over there? That's Bailey, of Texas; 
he's leader of the minority — a brainy man. There, too, is 
Mr. Curtis, Myrtle's uncle." 

“But where is Reed, the Czar?" 

“See him standing there, conversing with Riley of 
California." 

“But why isn't he in the chair?" 

“Do you expect him to roost there like a graven image 
all day?" cried the Senator, laughing. “No, no, he's got 
to stretch his legs occasionally. That is Martindale in the 
chair now. But we haven't a minute to lose now, children. 
It will never do to keep the President waiting. What do 
you say, Sherman?" he added, with a sly wink, as they 
swung briskly through the wide corridor. “We'll walk." 

“That suits me. Uncle." 

But Myrtle cried out against a purpose so preposterous, 
and the Senator, shaking with silent laughter, led the way 
to the rear where a carriage was awaiting them. The great 
man was in high good humor, full of jocular remarks and 
humorous allusion. 

“You have no idea, Sherman, what a great man a 
Senator is here at Washington," said Myrtle when they 
were well under way. “You should see the luxury with 
which he is surrounded! It's lovely being a Senator's 
daughter !" 

“I am sure of it," Sherman replied. 

“But I'm thinking of resigning," Senator Watterson 
said gravely. 

“The idea !" shrieked Myrtle, shaking him. 

“Fact. They coddle us too much." 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 643 

''It seems to me/' observed Sherman ; "that all you have 
is provided by yourselves — even the coddling." 

"Ha, ha!" cried Myrtle. "Now, Senator, will you be 
good I" 

The Senator rumbled with laughter, but protested vig- 
orously against an assumption so preposterous. 

The avenue was thronged. Carriages dashed past with 
uncommon spirit; cars roared their noisy way along; mon- 
ster autos went thundering by. A host of people were prome- 
nading. The Senator pointed out various places of in- 
terest along the way, and promised at an early opportunity 
to take the young man through the numerous government 
buildings. 

"That shall be my mission, Papa," Myrtle cried, giving 
her lover's hand a tender squeeze. 

"You have seen many capitals in your travels, no 
doubt," Senator Watterson said, with pride ; "but I'll venture 
to say, my boy, that you have seen none more charming 
than our own Washington." 

The White House looked quaint and old-fashioned, set 
down in the midst of a beautiful park, but like all mansions 
of ancient design, it was pervaded by a home-like atmosphere 
that was altogether charming. The interior was fully in 
keeping with its manifold beauties without. 

Entering by way of the main portico into a spacious ves- 
tibule, they were conducted by a uniformed attendant into a 
private waiting room to the right. Senator Watterson sent 
his card in to the President and having taken the precaution 
hours before of requesting a few minutes, he was promptly 
conveyed with his party to a small drawing room, where 
Aunt Sadie met them coming in with a sweet faced lady, 
the President's wife, who greeted the Senator and his 
daughter with a pleasant smile and a kind word of welcome, 
and to whom Sherman was introduced in form by his proud 
aunt. 

"My boy of whom I told you, Mrs. President," said 
Aunt Sadie beaming. "He has been away on his travels and 
only returned to-day, taking us all by surprise." 

"I am glad to meet Aunt Sadie's boy," said the Presi- 
dent's lady, extending a kind hand to the young man. 


644 


THE WATTERSONS. 


Sherman bowed over the fragile little hand with deep 
reverence, while Aunt Sadie who seemed to be on terms of 
the sweetest friendship with the President's lady, bent down 
to whisper a word in her ear, at which she gave a little 
cry of delight and taking Myrtle's hand in hers she kissed 
the girl's blushing cheek with much warmth and feeling. 

congratulate you, Mr. Watterson," she said smiling 
upon Sherman. wish you every joy my dear Aunt Sadie. 
Senator you must be proud and happy in your children." 

And then the President came in, and the gentle lady's 
eyes wandered away from them all to meet the glance of 
the grave-faced man, who had entered quietly behind them. 

''Good evening. Senator," he said genially. 

He bowed gravely to Aunt Sadie, who patting her hair 
with prodigious energy sought to withdraw behind Myrtle. 
That young lady met the President's smiling glance with the 
outward composure that characterized her. 

"Permit me, Mr. President, to introduce my boy to 
you," said Senator Watterson, smiling. "Mr. Sherman 
Watterson who has just returned to his native country after 
two years' absence abroad." 

The President held out his hand to Sherman regard- 
ing the young man with a grave kindliness that seemed 
habitual with him. Sherman colored high, as he met the 
plump white hand of the nation's head. 

"I did not know. Senator," said the President retaining 
the young man's hand for a moment in his, "that you had 
so stalwart a son!" 

"He is not my son, sir," replied Mr. Watterson smil- 
ing. 

The President looked more and more surprised. The 
sweet-faced lady who long ago had drawn near to her hus- 
band bent towards him now, and whispered a word in his 
ear. 

"Ah !" said the great man with a droll glance at the 
Senator. "He is no yet your son you mean. Senator? Well, 
well, that is even better." 

He asked Sherman about his travels and listened to 
the young man's replies with an air of deep interest. He had 
travelled very little, he said, speaking with an air of regret 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 


645 


as if he rather envied the young man his good fortune. 
They remained for half an hour or so, the President con- 
versing with Senator Watterson part of that time on vari- 
ous topics of current interest. He drew Sherman into the 
discussion in the most natural way, and completely won 
that young man's heart by gravely agreeing with the views 
which he modestly expressed. Sherman was delighted with 
his genial host, and with the sweet-faced lady his wife, who 
beamed so kindly upon them all. 

''You must dine with us, all of you, before you go 
home," the President said at parting. "When can you come. 
Senator ?" 

"Any time will suit me, Mr. President," replied Senator 
Watterson. 

"Then say to-morrow evening." 

The President once I'ciore shook hands with Sherman 
and they took their leave. 

"Well, Sherman, what do you think of hirh?" asked 
Mr. Watterson when they were again on the street. 

"A man after my own heart, Uncle," said Sherman 
heartily. 

"A truly great man, my son, as history will record. His 
burden is a heavy one, yet you have seen how serenely it 
is borne." 

They did not go out at all that evening, but re- 
mained in their apartments with Sherman whose travels 
formed the principal topic of conversation. Sherman had 
kept his eyes open on his way through the world. He had 
made a study of foreign customs and could talk interest- 
ingly of alien peoples; their mode of life, their system of 
government ; the status of their women — all matters of 
absorbing interest to Mr. Watterson and to Myrtle. They 
had a thousand questions to ask him, and Aunt Sadie had 
a thousand things to tell him of home and friends. And 
so the hours passed on the wings of the wind. 

As the evening waxed later visitors began dropping in 
on the Senator. Mr. Martindale, Member from Illinois 
came with Senator Traviston, both old friends of Sherman. 
Then came Mr. Curtis, Member from Maryland and brother- 
in-law to Senator Watterson — a frail looking middle-aged 


646 


THE WATTERSONS. 


man with tired eyes and a cough that gave him little peace. 
He was accompanied by his small daughter Marian, a 
brown-haired little fairy, who could not be withdrawn from 
Aunt Sadie’s arms whither she fled on her arrival. Two or 
three ladies. Aunt Sadie’s cherished friends completed the 
gathering, until the unexpected arrival of General Hamilton. 
Sherman was sitting beside Mr. Curtis, who was unfold- 
ing to him a tale of woe concerning the constitutional weak- 
ness of which he was the victim when the General came in. 
He sprang to his feet with an exclamation of delight and 
in three strides was by the General’s side, and in another 
moment had caught the old warrior in a bear-like embrace, 
which sadly marred the General’s dignity of deportment. 

''Release me, suh,” he cried. "How da’h you take such 
a libu’ty with me? I have a good mind to cane you fo’ 
yo’ impudence, suh!” 

But though he spoke thus sternly his eyes sparkled with 
pleasure,- and with his small white hand, he was tugging with 
manifest delight at his neat imperial. 

"Who told you of my return?” demanded Sherman, 
when the General had paid his respects to Aunt Sadie and 
exchanged greetings with the others. 

"I saw Daniel, suh,” the old warrior replied; "stand 
off, suh, and let me look at you.” 

He surveyed the young man from head to foot with 
vast approval. 

"Travel has done you good, boy,” he said gravely. 

"And time has dealt lightly with you. General,” Sher- 
man declared, pressing the old man’s hand. "I declare to 
you, you look younger than when I last saw you.” 

And indeed there was much reason in the young man’s 
remark. The General stood as squarely erect as of old; 
his countenance was as ruddy; his eye as keen, his hand 
as firm as ever. Perhaps his thick wavy hair had whitened 
more and the grim mustache and imperial no doubt had 
taken on a frostier hue; but there was no other visible 
change in him. He was as elegantly attired as in the old 
days at Clarenceburg, and in no single particular had he 
altered his mode of dress for the past fifty years. 

"Well, boy,” he said, sinking into the chair which Slier- 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 647 

man had placed for him. ^‘What Have you got to say fo' 
yo’self? Still afraid to kiss a pretty girl?'' 

“I've kissed many a one since I saw you last," Sherman 
replied. 

“What!" cried the General delightedly. “Say that 
again !" 

“Never mind," said Sherman hastily. 

“Say it again, suh," cried the General pounding his knee 
with delight. “I shall tell Myrtle that upon the honoh of a 
gentleman !" 

“If you do. General, I’ll forswear your friendship." 

The General still roared with laughter, protesting his 
unbelief with every breath. 

“Well, boy," he said, at last; “if you went no fu'tha' 
I have nothing mo' to say. Alas !" he ended suddenly with a 
sigh. “You have chosen the wiser pa't, my boy!" he said 
with emotion. “When I think of the fate of little Dimples 
my heart grows sad. Had I but taken measchas in season 
she might now be living a happy wife and mothah. But 
I never dreamed of such an ending to her little romance. 
I have known many wild blades, but not one so base with a 
soul so black as to seduce a young girl and desu't her in 
her hour of trouble. I saw the two together often but had 
no other thought than that it would end in tha'h happy 
union. You have chosen the manly pa't, Sherman, believe 
me !" 

“It was clear to me before I went away that he was 
tiring of little Rosie," replied Sherman; “but I had no 
idea of the true state of affairs. The news of Rosie's ruin 
came upon me like a bolt out of a clear sky. That is 
always the way, however, I think. Tell me. General, “he 
continued after a slight pause; “how are you enjoying life? 
How do you like the new South?" 

“Not at all, suh," the old warrior replied, shaking his 
head sadly. “Everything is changed, and changed im- 
meascha'bly fo' the wo'se. Nothing is the same. All is 
so'did business now wha'h fo’ma'ly was dignity and ease. 
The ancient spirit is depa'ted. In its place now reigns a 
strange new doctrine, which levels all distinction. It is 
sad. Degeneration is everywha'h. Why, suh," continued 


648 


THE WATTERSONS. 


the old man with blazing scorn, ''young HaVey Fa’hfax, 
great grandson of Majah Fa’hfax, the hero of a hundhad 
meetings, suh, the pride of Jackson’s a’my — ^young Ha’vey, 
suh, is selling boots and shoes in Richmond at this very 
moment, suh ! And General Fo’tesque, my old brothah-in- 
a’ms is engaged in the liqua’ business. It is outrageous, 
suh ! And this is true not only of Vu’ginia but of the entire 
South. No matta’ in what direction you jo’ney, suh, every- 
wha’h you see the same so’did activity. The sons of gen- 
tlemen, suh, lo’ds of ten thousand aca’s in tha’h time, 
masters of five hundhad slaves have become tradesmen, suh, 
have gone into the business of manufacto’ing, of buying and 
selling — bahta’ing fo’ gold on the ground wha’ a few decades 
ago tha’h fathahs reigned as kings, suh ! They tell me that 
all this makes fo’ the commu’cial greatness of the South, 
suh ! It may be, I do not know, noli ca’ to know anything 
about it, but this I know that in the past a greater, stronger 
race of men dwelt in my native Southland, than dwells tha’h 
now. Whatevah the futcha’ may hold fo’ us be sure our 
glory dwells wholly in the past, which never mo’ can be 
called into life again.” 

There were tears in the old man’s eyes when he finished. 
Sherman pressed his hand in silent sympathy. 

"I think. General,” he said; "that you fail to take into 
account the conditions that confronted the South at the 
close of the war. How often have you told me of the ruin 
and desolation on every hand? You left it all behind and 
came North, and you cannot know the enormous difficulties 
with which those who remained had to cope. With homes 
laid waste and servants scattered; with a hostile govern- 
ment to contend with, and a horde of greedy vultures over- 
running the land, it was to the survivors a question of ex- 
istence purely. How was it possible under circumstances so 
adverse to re-establish even a semblance of old conditions? 
There was not the remotest possibility of re-creating the 
past. The old autocratic South was founded upon slavery 
and made possible by slavery. Nothing else! With slavery 
abolished the system was crushed out of existence, and all 
that remained to the South was for her to adapt herself to 
the new conditions, which meant engaging in active pursuits 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 


649 


in trade and manufacture. This was done accordingly and 
I say to you General Hamilton that it is to the eternal credit 
of the new South that despite the all but overwhelming 
handicap under which she labored, she rose to her present 
commercial greatness. Now, now, old friend!’' he inter- 
rupted himself with a laugh as he observed the General 
swelling and purpling with the rage engendered by this con- 
tradiction. ''Shake not thy hoary locks at me; you taught 
me to form my own opinions and when formed to express 
them without fear or favor, and if I now and then differ 
with you, you must even bear with me. The old South 
was modeled upon the system prevailing in the Old World 
at the time of its inception. That such a system of compara- 
tive autocracy continued so long in this Republic was due 
to slavery alone. It had to go. The South is the better for 
it. The country is the better for it ; the whole world is the 
better for it. No man is good enough to govern another 
man without that other man’s consent, said Old Abe Lin- 
coln, and depend upon it. General, honest Abe knew what 
he was talking about. The new South, as was inevitable, was 
modeled upon the North and side by side with the North, 
she has grown until now she knows no supremacy. You went 
away and remained away for thirty years ; you returned ex- 
pecting to find things pretty much as you remembered them 
before the Rebellion. You were disappointed and naturally, 
but depend upon it, old friend, everything is for the best.” 

The General remained silent so long that Sherman 
feared he had offended him past forgiveness. But no, the 
old warrior passed his hand across his brow once or twice 
and sorrowfully shook his head. 

"I da’h say you are right, boy,” he said; "I da’h say 
you are right. But — ” he shook his head again and sighed. 

"And for yourself, old friend,” asked Sherman; "are 
you happy?” 

"I have no pu’sonal grievances, suh,” the General re- 
plied. "All is peace around me and sweet tranquility. Brave 
boys, and cha’ming girls are growing up around me. I 
spend pa’t of each summer with my friends in the West and 
all winter have them near me. Yes, I am happy, boy.” 

"I am glad.” 


650 


THE WATTERSONS. 


What are yo’ plans, suh, fo' the fiitcha’? Have you 
fo’med any plans as yet?'' 

''Lots of 'em, General. I propose to take an active 
part in my uncle's business for one thing, and for another 
I shall revive the old Chronicle." 

"Aha !" cried the General, his eyes sparkling with de- 
light. 

"Not in the old form exactly. General, but somewhat 
after the manner of these Eastern weeklies — Harper’s — Col- 
lier’s — Leslie's — you know them? I hope to build up an 
immense constituency. You General shall be senior editor; 
and besides shall write for me that history of American 
Journalism of which you have often spoken in the past. 

"You give me new life, boy !" cried the General pound- 
ing his knee with his hand. 

"Uncle Winfield too shall become a contributor. I 
have already settled that he is to write a history of American 
Politics for the new publication. There is no one in this 
country so well equipped as he. I have not yet spoken to 
him about it, but I am confident that with your assistance 
I shall be able to talk him into it. All this General is still 
in the air. Just at present I am determined if it is not too 
late to join some regiment of volunteers. If I can get a 
commission, all right; if not I’ll enlist." 

"Nonsense, suh, nonsense!" cried the General; but 
clearly he was tremendously pleased with the energy and 
spirit displayed by his old-time protege. "The wah is practi- 
cally ovah. A me’h flurry I assuah you, suh. But come 
let us join the others. I see you cannot keep yo’ eyes off yo' 
sweetheart. Ah ! golden youth ! Look at her suh, and 
obsu've her stolen glances ; obsu've, too, the eyes of yo’ good 
aunt, how faithfully they follow yo' every movement, and 
say, have you the heart to think of leaving these two loving 
women so soon after returning to them? Nonsense, suh, 
I say ! You will visit me sho’tly, boy, I hope?" 

"Indeed, General, I am looking forward to it." 

'‘And I shall attend yo’ wedding, boy." 

"I would not regard it as my wedding. General, unless 
you were there; the most honored of our guests." 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 65 1 

The General patted him on the shoulder with a gentle 
hand. 

''Majah/^ he said, approaching the big man, who was 
standing apart with his political friends. '‘Travel has made 
a man of the boy I find.’’ 

"Yes, General,” the Major replied. "He has poise and 
balance, not a doubt of it. We are proud of him. Sadie is 
almost beside herself with joy.” 

"And Myrtle?” 

"And Myrtle also ! There will be a wedding shortly, 
old friend. And such a wedding !” 

Sherman joined Myrtle who had withdrawn from the 
other ladies, and with little Marian by her side was engaged 
in turning over a stack of pictures. Aunt Sadie still was 
sitting with her friends chatting quietly, but her loving eyes 
followed Sherman about everywhere. 

"You’ve met my cousin Marian before haven’t you 
Sherman?” asked Myrtle smiling brightly up at him. 

"Marian and I used to be great friends. I spent three 
weeks at Marian’s Maryland home two years ago.” 

"Two years ago!” mused Marian; "I must have been 
a little girl then.” 

She now was a slender little large-eyed maiden aged 

ten. 

"Yes,” said Sherman gravely; "you were a little girl 
then. Two years does make a wonderful difiference, doesn’t 
it?” 

Marian nodded ; and Myrtle to hide a smile bent down 
and pressed the little thing’s cheek to hers. 

The visitors remained fully an hour longer. General 
Hamilton was the last to depart, and for an hour or more 
the four sat together talking of the past and of the future. 
Then the Senator went away and Aunt Sadie followed 
after, leaving the lovers alone with their happiness. 

"Myrtle,” said Sherman drawing the girl close to his 
heart; "I have been thinking of something.” 

"Of what, dear?” asked Myrtle softly. 

"Of our future. I was deeply impressed this evening 
by the very evident regard existing between the President 
and his lady-love.” 


652 


THE WATTERSONS. 


“Ah, Sherman, everybody knows they are lovers still. 

“I was wondering, dear, if we, after spending as many 
years together as have these two loving hearts, years of 
trial mayhap, of mutual sorrow and mutual suffering — if 
we will still continue lovers.’' 

“Surely, surely, Sherman, you do not doubt it?” cried 
Myrtle. 

“No, Myrtle, I do not doubt it,” he replied deeply. “I 
never doubted it. But — but you haven’t named the day yet, 
darling. When is it to be ?” 

“What, Sherman?” asked Myrtle looking away with 
blushing cheeks. 

“Ah, you know ! Our wedding day. As soon as we 
get home? Uncle tells me that Congress will probably ad- 
journ this week — say Thursday a week, Myrtle.” 

“Goodness me, Sherman!” cried Myrtle aghast. 

“What? Is that too soon? Well, say Thursday two 
weeks. You must remember that I’ve waited long. Myrtle — 
three long years.” 

“I know, I know, Sherman, but — but I can’t get ready 
in that time ! I must have dresses made and — and oh ! 
there are a thousand, thousand things I’ve got to do before 
I can even think of naming the day.” 

“Now, I like that,”’ growled Sherman. “Get ready ! 
Why, what is there to get ready? You couldn’t get a pret- 
tier dress than that one if you spent ten years at it, and 
I have no doubt you’ve got dozens of them stowed away ! 
Honestly, Myrtle, I never believed in this thing of spending 
weeks and weeks in preparation. I don’t want any fuss 
made about my wedding. No beating of tom-toms or blow- 
ing of brass horns if I can help it. If I had my way 
we’d go out like two sensible people and have the knot tied 
at the first parsonage. But I suppose you’d never give in to 
that?” 

“No, indeed!” cried Myrtle. “Surely, surely, Sherman, 
you cannot mean that !” 

“But I do. Come, darling, let me have my way in this 
one thing, and you shall have yours all the rest of your 
life.” 


AFTER TWO YEARS. 653 

''But Aunt Sadie has set her heart on a grand wed- 
ding 

"Oh, Lord \” groaned Sherman. 

"Dearest Sherman,’' said Myrtle, half laughing at his 
despairing expression, yet very much in earnest. "We owe 
something to society, and society demands certain conven- 
tional observances. And surely, my Sherman, our marriage 
is not so small and slight a thing that you would enter 
into it in the same spirit in which you go about your every- 
day aflfairs ?” 

"No, no. Myrtle. Humph! I never thought of it quite 
in that way.” 

"You see, dear, we can be married but once and a 
marriage when rightly regarded is so solemn a thing that — 
that — you see, Sherman !” 

"Indeed, you are right. Myrtle. What a wise little 
woman. I greatly fear, however,” said Sherman with extra- 
ordinary penetration, "that I’ll come off second best in all 
our little differences hereafter.” 

"Oh, no, Sherman,” protested Myrtle blushing and smil- 
ing. "Oh, no, no, no !” 

But she settled herself in his arms with quite’ a com- 
fortable little shake as if the future held no terrors at all in 
store for her. 

"You see, Sherman,” she said ingenuously, "Aunt 
Sadie’s heart is so set on having a grand wedding.” 

"Aunt Sadie!” cried Sherman laughing tenderly. "I 
know somebody whose heart is even more set on it.” 

He kissed that somebody many times quite as if he 
enjoyed her little subterfuge and was proud of it and her. 
And she submitted sweetly and responded with tenderness 
and joy. 

• Behind the portieres Aunt Sadie stood clutching her 
brother’s arm. 

"Look, Winfield, look!” she whispered in great excite- 
ment. "Do you see them, brother ? Aren’t they sweet ? Do, 
do look, Winfield.” 

"I am looking, Sadie,” replied Mr. Watterson softly. 

"Now, come away.” 

Together they retreated to the Senator’s little den where 


654 the wattersons. 

Aunt Sadie promptly collapsed into a chair and proceeded 
to fill the room with little delighted cries, and gurgling 
gasps, and long-drawn sighs. There she sat for full five 
minutes, shaking from head to foot, with tears streaming 
down her cheeks, beating her hands together and stamping 
her feet, the very embodiment of riotous mirth. And when 
at last she managed to speak all she said was, ‘T told you 
so ! 


—THE END.- 




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